


This Must Be the Place

by mugsandpugs



Series: Dad Logan [2]
Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: Alternate Universe- Logan adopts the Brotherhood, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Humor, M/M, Some Cherik Near the End, dad!logan, slow burn found family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2018-12-11 04:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 136,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11707266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugsandpugs/pseuds/mugsandpugs
Summary: Logan only intended to give the Maximoff kid a ride home. He didn't know he would find himself along the way.





	1. Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story contains vague reference to past child abuse/neglect/endangerment (working towards recovery), underage drinking, some implied sexy times (never described in any detail), bigotry against mutants, general rowdy shenanigans (including a lot of swearing), and the complications of loving family members that have hurt you. I think it fits the T rating, but felt I should put a warning out anyway.
> 
> Dad Logan is a project of love. I'm very proud of it and truly poured my heart into every word. I'm so thankful you decided to give it a chance.

He hadn't realized there was an extra body on the X-Jet until they were already in the air and could breathe in collective sighs of relief. He checked them all over in the surreptitious, sensory way he always did after a battle, looking for bruises, listening for labored breathing, sniffing for blood. All the kids seemed to be doing alright, save for one boy slumped like a ragdoll in Evan's arms.

"Hey Hedgehog," he called, and Ororo's nephew looked up guiltily at the nickname. 

"Yeah?" 

"Don't 'yeah' me. What's that doing here?" He pointed towards Magneto's unconscious son. 

Evan fidgeted uncomfortably, glancing at Rogue as though reluctant to tattle on her. She was sitting with her arms folded irritably, staring out her window, her foot tapping at a supernatural speed. 

Logan put two and two together and sighed. 

"I couldn't find Alvers to give him back when it all went kablooey," Evan said, his hands moving expressively until, without the support of his shoulder, Pietro flopped bonelessly onto his lap. Evan squawked and propped him back up again. 

When they landed back at the mansion, Logan stopped Evan and pulled the teenage mutant out of his arms, slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of barley. "I'll take him home, kid. Go to bed." 

Evan nodded, but hesitated. "Be careful with him, okay?" He asked, scuffling his shoe and avoiding Logan's eye. Before Logan could think of a response- something along the lines of him not exactly being in the habit of harming helpless minors, no matter how annoying they were- Evan was gone. He remembered, belatedly, that the two had once been teammates, and maybe even friends. 

Rogue must have really zapped the kid. He didn't react, even when Logan nearly dropped him struggling to open the back door of one of the school vehicles. He'd quickly grabbed a fistful of the kids shirt to keep him upright and it wrenched up, showing pale belly and too many ribs. He probably wouldn't have paid any attention, had he not recently researched several articles on teen eating disorders when he'd noticed one of the girls routinely skipping meals. 

But this kid wasn't an X-kid, he reminded himself. He laid him across the back seats, fixed his shirt with an abrupt flick of the wrist, and slammed the door shut before getting in his drivers' seat. He was that blue chick's responsibility. It was up to her to make sure her kids were doing alright. 

Still, though. It bothered him. 

Because it was chilly, he turned on the heaters and angled them towards the back seat as he pulled from the mansion's lavish driveway, waited for the automated gates to recognize him, and then he was on the open road, vaguely recalling the location of the brotherhood boarding house from when he'd gone to pick up Rogue's things over a year ago. 

He took more care with turns and road curves than he normally would, not wanting to send Pietro sliding off the seat, and he kept the radio off so he could better keep an ear on his breathing and heartbeat. It was dark now; the streetlights were on, and few cars accompanied him on the roads, leaving him alone with his thoughts. The battle had been risky, but clean; no serious injuries on either side. 

By the time he reached what many of the kids considered enemy territory (internally, he always rolled his eyes at that. The X-kids were still too spoiled and young to know the difference between rivals and real enemies.) he thought he must have taken a wrong turn, but no- this was the right address, and that was definitely Alvers' jeep. 

He whistled. The brotherhood boarding house had fallen into serious disrepair. Between the cracks running the length of the building (Alvers, probably) held together by luck and hardened green slime (Tolansky, definitely), broken windows, and a very concave roof, it was a miracle the damn thing was still standing. 

His nose twitched at the rising stink of cheap beer, and as he opened the door he saw multiple crushed cans strewn about the lot. And wasn't _that_ interesting- it was no surprise Raven had no home repair skills, but he'd think she'd know at least not to advocate teen drinking. 

The clues that something was rotten in Denmark were piling up fast as he stood and went around to take the kid to the door. He heard a slam when his back was turned, and listened to approaching footsteps, dodging just in time to avoid a blow to the side of the head. 

"Where the _hell,"_ snarled Alvers ferociously, aiming a second punch. "Have you _been?!_ I called your McMansion, like, _ten_ times and nobody answered me!" 

Logan turned and grabbed the Avalanche by the wrist before he could swing a third time, dragging him close to stare angrily into his eyes. Lance was taller, but Logan was stronger. "You done?" he snapped. "I brought your friend back. You could say thank you." 

_"Thank_ you?!" Alvers didn't so much as blanche from the proximity; his anger was such that the ground was beginning to rumble. "No, dude. You can't kidnap one of _my_ boys and think I'm gonna _thank_ you for it. We had no idea where you were! You could have taken him anywhere! I should-" 

"Lance?" 

The groggy voice from the backseat stilled both mutants. Pietro, it seemed, had woken at last. "Lance," he said again. There was a vulnerability in his usually cocky tone that seemed incongruous, somehow, with the peacock Logan sometimes saw on the battlefield. Logan caught a whiff of fear in the air. "Why can't I move?" 

Immediately Alvers was squirming in Logan's grasp, and with a huff of annoyance, the Wolverine released him. Lance hurried to the car, protectively dragging Pietro closer and hefting him up like he weighed nothing- fairly close to the truth, as Logan now knew. "I got you, dude," he was saying quietly. "It's okay. You'll be better soon, just let that Rogue-funk wear off. You're okay." 

He said it to comfort Quicksilver, but it sounded like he was trying to convince himself, too. The worry in his posture and his scent, coupled with the way his belt was pulled tight to keep his too-loose pants from sliding down, melted off the last of Logan's anger. This wasn't a threat. This was a child, afraid. 

The other two boys- the Toad and the Blob- waited anxiously at the screen door as their leader, carrying their second-in-command, approached. He stopped with one foot on the porch steps, turning to point an accusatory finger at Logan. 

"Tell your X-brats that if they _ever_ touch us again, we'll burn your pretty little mansion to the ground," he said, through gritted teeth. The ground shook so that Logan had to bend his knees to keep his balance. Upstairs, the tinkling sound of breaking glass met his ear. 

Fred put a hand on Lance's shoulder, comfortingly, not warningly, and Lance closed his eyes, leaning into the touch and drawing silent strength from it. Logan was reminded of his time in war, of how Steve's presence at the worst of times comforted him. Somehow, the comparison was not far off. The hollow look on their faces was setting off all his warning bells. They had the posture of soldiers and the hopeless eyes of dogs in a fighting ring. 

_Something is wrong. Something is_ very _wrong._

"I'm really cold," Pietro said quietly, and so the four of them migrated into the house, shutting Logan out. 

He heard their footsteps on the stairs, and eventually a light- presumably in Pietro's bedroom- illuminated a window. They were talking so low he could barely hear from downstairs on the street, but Fred's question came through loud and clear: "They didn't hurt you, did they Tro?" 

_Oh, hell,_ thought Logan, when his conscious gave a kick like a mule. He closed his eyes, sighed. The jeep's tires were pretty damn bald, and the first snow was coming soon, he saw when he reopened them a moment later. It wouldn't be safe to keep driving like that for much longer. 

He stepped numbly up the porch- he hadn't heard tumblers click; the door clearly wasn't locked. Letting himself in revealed an even bigger mess than the outside and- even more troublingly- not a single gust of heat from the vents. 

He followed a well-worn path to the kitchen and tested out the sink. No water, either. It was a miracle their lights were still on. 

The fridge was empty save for a mustard bottle and a few leftover cans from a six-pack. The cabinets turned up exactly nothing. 

The approaching slap-slap of webbed feet on cracked tile floor had him turning in time to see Todd come around the corner. He flinched at the sight of a man in the kitchen, then glanced around furtively. 

"Dude!" He hissed between clenched teeth. "The hell are you doing in here?! Get out before Lance sees you, yo; he's so pissed he'll just send the whole house crashing down." The teen emitted a most peculiar odor; Logan couldn't tell how much of the smell came from his mutation and how much was a result of not having washed in a long time. 

"Okay," Logan said quietly, holding his hands up. "I'll leave. But just tell me one thing. Where is Raven?" 

Todd scoffed. "Her? She left us ages ago. It's just us. Now would you get out?!" 

Logan left, a stack of pilfered, unpaid bills in his coat pocket. 

Pulling into the mansion's circular driveway, he was greeted by a blur running laps around the house. The smell of her sweat told him her identity before she skittered to a halt in front of him, barely out of breath. 

"I can't _stand_ this," Rogue moaned miserably. "How can that speedy little creep live like this all the time? I can't hold still and my brain is all over the place! I'm going crazy." 

Before Logan could reply, she was back at it, running with Pietro's stolen speed to burn off that constant hum of energy. Watching her made him dizzy, so he went inside and set up shop in the living room to keep an ear on her instead. With his own checkbook, he paid the boys' water bill; the heating; the trash pickup cost, putting each of the Brotherhood's expenses into their respective envelopes. 

"You're up late," Hank observed from the doorway, holding two mugs of tea in his blue claws. "Everyone else is asleep." 

"Yeah," Logan mused, twirling his pen between his fingers. 

"Something on your mind?" 

"You could say that." 

The great thing about Hank was that he never rushed anyone; he always left time for them to put their thoughts together. He handed Logan a mug and took a sip of his own chamomile, waiting in comfortable silence. 

"How much," Logan said finally. "Do you think a kid like Dukes needs to eat in a day?" 

Hank cocked his head. "I'm no nutritionist," he replied thoughtfully. "And I'd need to run some tests to give you a more concrete answer, but I think it would need to be quite a lot based on his strength and size. Lean proteins, complex carbs, green leafy vegetables, like you're supposed to be eating." He gave Logan an affectionate nudge with his knee. 

Logan ignored the gentle dig about his beer and rare steak diet. It was a friendly debate they had often. 

"However," Hank continued. "While we're on the topic, I'd also be interested in taking a look at the Maximoff boy. Think of a hummingbird, forever traveling flower to flower for sugar to keep up its great speed." 

Logan _was_ thinking of the Maximoff boy. He was thinking of the deep shadows between his visible ribs. 

A sudden noise caused him to look up; the distinctive sound of a body hitting the dirt. Without another word he stood, collected a blanket from the back of the couch, and stepped out into the pre-winter chill. Rogue was easy enough to find, curled on her side and shivering, her breath coming out in white puffs. 

"I think it's over," she mumbled. 

Without a word he collected her, bundling her into the blanket like a burrito so he didn't accidentally touch her skin. Hank watched them as they stepped inside, and he gave him a nod goodnight as he carried her to her bedroom, where Kitty was already sleeping deeply. 

"Thanks, Logan," Rogue yawned, and was asleep before he could even put her on her bed. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped her muddy shoes off her feet, stopped to lift Kitty's dangling arm back onto her mattress, and left them to their dreams. 

He didn't sleep much that night, an uncomfortable gnawing in his gut that had nothing to do with hunger, and rose before dawn to begin his morning exercises. 

Charles joined him when pale pink clouds began to break up the morning gray, a tray of breakfast for two in his lap. Logan wiped sweat off his forehead and went to join him at a small metal table that overlooked the grand garden, already gone dormant and gray for the winter. 

"You seem distant," the other man remarked, as Logan picked at his oatmeal and bacon. The orange juice had been freshly squeezed with pulp, just the way he liked it. The coffee was dark roast, hand-ground. 

"I want to take some time off," Logan said. It hadn't been what he'd meant to say, but it was the truth, so he let it stand between them. 

Charles dabbed at his mouth with a cloth napkin. It wasn't such an unusual request, but Logan's tone... 

"Logan, would you like me to help you examine your thoughts?" He offered. Sometimes, Logan accepted that offer- his faint first memories of the lab confused and haunted him at times, until it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn't anymore. 

Now, Logan shook his head. "Nah, Chuck. This ain't got nothin' to do with _that_ stuff. I just... need some time away." 

Charles nodded. "When will you be leaving?" 

"Soon." 

It was as simple as that. When Logan later stood to go inside and gather his things, Charles stopped him with a hand on his arm. Logan wasn't big on touchy-feely crap, but he allowed it, and there they remained- him, on his feet; Charles, in his wheeled chair- together for a few moments, two old friends watching the sunrise. 

* * *

It was mid-morning by the time Logan's borrowed truck rumbled back into the Brotherhood driveway, and in this light it was looking more decrepit than ever. The structure leaned and sagged, the supports having taken too much of a beating for any kind of stability. Trash was strewn everywhere, and he sighed. 

Then he got out and got to work. 

He patted atop the door frame until he felt a spare key and pocketed it to make himself a copy. 

First order of business was to get rid of the blatantly dangerous. Glass was swept and bagged, tarps were stretched over windows and holes in walls, and beer was poured callously down the drain. 

He ran the taps, tested the heater, and smiled in satisfaction when both were in working order. He'd practically intimidated the employees in the home office as he handed the money over into turning both back on right away. 

He worked until his back ached and the clock read just another hour before school let out, and then he gently pulled his motorcycle from the truck bed, set it aside, and went to the nearest grocery store. By the time he was finished shopping, the truck's bed groaned under the weight of all he'd purchased. 

The clock above the oven read 2:30 p.m. At 2:31, he was no longer alone in the kitchen. 

"What are you doing here?" Pietro demanded. He looked completely recovered from the night before. 

"Hello to you, too, Sonic," Logan replied from where he knelt scrubbing some unclassifiable sludge from the bottom of the fridge. "Have a nutrition shake." 

"Sonic?" Pietro sounded caught off guard by the nickname. 

Logan shrugged. He was friends with the Hedgehog. He was fast. Ergo, he was Sonic. Instead of answering, he grabbed a bottle of vanilla-flavored from the now-stocked fridge shelf and tossed it over his shoulder. 

Pietro looked at the bottle. "Isn't this stuff old people drink?" He asked, reading the list of ingredients. 

"Yeah, it's high-calorie and has all the nutrients. Drink it." 

He was almost surprised when he heard the bottle cap twist open, the foil seal tear, and the sound of Pietro taking a curious swallow. Surprised, but relieved. He'd thought he'd have to fight him more on this. 

Then Pietro leaned against the freezer door, watching him as he worked. "You never answered my question," he pointed out when Logan glanced his way. "What are you donig here?" 

"You're a minor," Logan replied. "You're living alone in an unstable and unsafe situation. It'd be criminally negligent to let you continue. So." 

"So," Pietro agreed, folding his arms and nodding. He had an almost amused expression on his face; all confidence, none of that vulnerable fear he'd shown when he couldn't move after the fight. "A man of responsibility, I see." 

Logan grew twitchy at being watched so closely. "Go clean up the junk in the living room," he said, pointing to the heavy-duty trash bags in the corner. 

Pietro grinned. "Sure thing, boss." 

With a whirlwind of activity too fast for his eyes to follow, every bit of trash down to the most miniscule scrap of paper, was gone. He'd even gone so far to wipe the baseboards down. He was back in the blink of an eye. 

Now Logan raised an eyebrow. "Not bad." 

The sound of the arriving jeep outside had him turning his head. A minute later, Pietro's more average hearing too picked up on the sound of voices approaching the door. 

"- don't see why he never lets me drive," Tolansky was complaining. 

"Because Lance says you drive like Crazy Frog," Dukes replied reasonably. "And you don't have a license." 

They both headed straight into the kitchen and froze at the doorway, looking from Pietro's smirking face to Logan's expressionless one. 

"Welcome home," Logan grunted. "Dukes, I'm gonna need you to hold the oven up for me." 

Todd was the first to recover. "I thought I told you to get out, yo," he said. "You're lucky Lance has detention today." 

"I'm not afraid of teenagers," Logan pointed out. "No matter how big a temper tantrum they can throw. Dukes, oven." 

Fred looked to Pietro for a cue on what he should do. Pietro merely shrugged, a nasty grin still half-eclipsing his face. "You heard the man." 

In the end, Fred warily stepped forward and lifted the entire appliance to shoulder height. Without hesitation, Logan scooted underneath it, checking the wiring. It was a calculated move; one he'd learned from Charles. Should Fred drop the oven, Logan would be crushed underneath it. Sure, he'd heal in minutes, but the pain would be excruciating. 

That same thought had clearly occurred to Fred, and he gawked at Logan as though he were crazier than Crazy Frog. 

He did not drop the oven. 

Plugging it back in from where Lance had long ago rattled it loose, Logan brushed his hands off in satisfaction. "There," he declared. "Now we can start on dinner." 

Fred waited for him to crawl out from underneath the oven before oh-so-carefully setting it back down. 

"Dinner?" Todd asked, a note of hope in his voice. 

* * *

By the time Pietro left to pick up Lance from his detention (having first gotten Fred started on his homework), Logan had rapidly peeled his way through a pile of carrots, mushrooms, potatoes, and onions and was starting on cubing the beef. He noticed two pairs of eyes continually peering his way. 

"I should probably ask if you're allergic to anything," he said at last, causing them both to jump. 

After a moment's hesitation, Fred shook his head no. Todd cautiously listed a few things, for himself and for Lance. Logan made a mental note of it. 

The jeep arrived, parked, and was still. There was no sound of footsteps approaching, but after a moment a door opened and he could make out their voices. 

"- know how it goes," Pietro was saying. "Same as any group home. You were in the system even longer than I was, remember? They come for a while, they get tired of us, they leave. Just let him play daddy for a while; if he feels like buying us shit, let him." 

Lance was practically growling. "I don't like it. Feels like something that Charles freak is setting up." 

This made Pietro laugh. "So what if it is? What are they gonna do, lobotomize us into being good little supersoldiers for them? Please." 

"Hey, Mr. Wolverine, uh, dude?" Todd was asking, snapping Lance's attention back to where he stood. "Your pan is all heated up. 

So it was. Logan scraped the meat off the cutting board into the pan with his knife; it sizzled gratifyingly. "You can call me Logan, you know," he said, amused despite himself. Todd did not look convinced. 

When Lance did finally deign to come inside, he smelled more of Pietro than of himself. Logan would have attributed it to having carried him up the stairs the night before, except that his lips were just slightly swollen. 

So it was like that? Interesting. He would never have guessed. 

Lance stared at him a good two minutes before speaking. 

"I don't like this," he said, doing his best to sound mature and adult; looking very much his seventeen years. 

"Funny," Logan remarked. "I don't like commercials interrupting my music, but that's all my radio ever seems to play. Biscuit?" He held out the tin of storebought dough he'd just heated. 

Dinner was a quiet, awkward affair. Logan kept his face blank, staying silent as he chowed down on the bachelor's stew. When he finished, he rinsed his bowl and looked sternly at the others until, sheepishly, they got up to do so as well. Only Lance remained stubborn, staring him down. It was Pietro's nudge that had him lined up at the sink. 

"You've probably noticed the water's back on," Logan said casually. "So I guess that's your cue to take a shower, should you get tired of your own smell. G'night; try not to burn the house down." 

He followed his nose to the door at the end of the hall. Testing the doorknob, he found it was locked, so, with a shrug, he unsheathed the claws of his right hand and swiped the entire knob off, then let himself in. 

Mystique's room smelled of stale dust. Underneath about two months of that was her own scent- a spicy musk he recognized no matter what form she took. When he sat heavily on the end of the bed, a plume of dust rose, sending him quickly to the window where he had a brief coughing fit. He'd air it out better tomorrow; for now, he really was exhausted. 

Leaning his elbow on the window frame, he surveyed the street below and sighed, the cool, blank expression he'd worked to keep all day melting away to one of wan stress. 

_What in the hell have I gotten myself into now?_ he wondered.


	2. Pushing Boundaries I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which trouble brews.

**[SupremeSpeed] wants to start a chat**

**[Rockhard] has joined the chat**

**[Frogger] has joined the chat**

****

**[BippityBlobbityBoo] has joined the chat**

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Looked like you guys were having fun doing the children’s reading corner today. 

**From [Frogger]:** He-ll to the YEAH we were! Did you see me in my wolf costume? Arooooo! All those hot single mamas were all over me. 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Looked to me like the ‘hot single mamas’ and the librarians were all over FRED. He really sold that ‘three little pigs’ [expletive redacted]- had those toddlers rooted to the spot. Who knew he was such a good storyteller? 

**From [Frogger]:** Of course he is, yo. Freddie’s the best with kids. He grew up in the entertainment industry. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** I didnt no you guys were watching what were you 2 doing all the way back in the nonfickshun section? No1 ever goes back there.. 

**From [Rockhard]:** Tro was helping me find a book for class 

**From [Frogger]:** In the PREGNANCY section? What sort of class is that for?! 

**From [Rockhard]:** Anyway Tro why did you drag us all the way to the library? You said you wanted to talk about something? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Yeah. We need to start operation Get Logan the He-ll Out. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** Dont do that I liKe him he maid us lunches ): 

**From [Rockhard]:** What happened to letting him stick around until he gets tired of us and goes away on his own? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** That was before he dropped us off at school and shouted “Be good! Go to class! Don’t do drugs!” and everybody STARED AT US. 

**From [Frogger]:** LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL THAT WAS THE BEST THO!!!!! 

**From [Rockhard]:** I mean with a name like ‘supreme speed’ are we really sure your NOT selling drugs? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Of course I am. Somebody needs to supply your Viagra fix, ‘Rockhard.’ 

**From [Frogger]:** LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL LANCE TAKES VIAGRA!!!!!1!! 

**From [Rockhard]:** Shut up no I dont it’s rock like ROCKS and hard like HARD ROCK, MAN!!! but ur just too dumb to get it!!!!!  > : ( 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Whatever you say, Monsieur Rockhard. 

**[Rockhard] has changed their username to [Rockstarr]**

**From [Rockstarr]:** There are you happy you [expletive redacted] ? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** I am thrilled. I am overjoyed. I have achieved nirvana. 

**From [Frogger]:** Oooh Tro we’d better stop he’s making the library shake. :( Cute librarian 1 is looking at us. 

**From [Rockstarr]:** Todd she’s like 40 

**From [Frogger]:** So what? Cute is cute. I ain’t ageist. Maybe she’ll ‘look for some books in the pregnancy section’ with me ;P 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Fred you’re being awfully quiet. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** I am workingg on My blog 

**From [Rockstarr]:** You have a blog? 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** Yes its picktures of cool animals I find but dont look for it youl just make fun of it 

**From [Frogger]:** Freddie if these lame-os make fun of your blog I’ll slime their beds. It’s cool as [expletive redacted]. YOU’RE cool as [expletive redacted]. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** :’) THAnk you Todd your cool 2 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Yeah yeah absolutely everything and everyone is spiffing cool. Can we now TALK ABOUT WHY WE CAME HERE IN THE FIRST PLACE? 

**From [Frogger]:** No need to get your all-caps-voice on yo, chill out. So you wanna can the manny? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** I don’t know what that means. That sounds vaguely dirty. I just want Logan to leave. 

**From [Frogger]:** I’ll help you if it gets your panties out of a bunch. You’ve got That Look on your face. 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Lance? 

**From [Rockstarr]:** I don’t know. It’s nice having food. And water. And heat. He said he’d put snow tires on the jeep too. 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Yeah I saw you all cozy with him last night slapping plaster on the walls like he was auditioning for Handy Man of the Year or some [expletive reacted]. 

**From [Rockstarr]:** We weren’t “””cozy”””. He just said if I keep making holes I need to learn how to fill them. It made sense. 

**From [Frogger]:** Now who sounds “vaguely dirty”? ;p 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Okay if you want to fill your holes with Logan be my guest, but I’m out of here. 

**From [Frogger]:** Lance Lance LANCE SERIOUSLY STOP SHAKING THE LIBRARY bro this is our safe space hangout thingy. Do you need me to rub your back til you calm down again? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Fred, will you help me? Logan’s bad news. He only wants to hurt us. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** thats not true i dOnt thinkk 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Of course it’s true. Why would he want to help us after everything we’ve done? Remember what you did to Jean? 

**From [Frogger]:** Tro stop bringing that up. He said he was sorry a million times. He didn’t know any better growing up with all the carnies. He’d never been around other kids before! 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** But my point still stands. He and the rest of the Xbrats hate our guts. He WANTS to leave us. He’s just here out of some weird Christian guilt or whatever. Let’s show him that it’s okay to let us go back to how things were. 

**From [Rockstarr]:** How? 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** He looks at us, he sees pathetic youth in need of his manly guidance, or whatever. We just need to remind him of what we really are. Meet me outside X-McMansion at midnight. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** I dont like this tro lets not Do it ): 

**From [SupremeSpeed]:** Stay home if you want to p*ssy out on us, it’s your choice. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** Pietro pleese 

**[SupremeSpeed] has left the chat**

**From [Rockstarr]:** Sorry, buddy. He didn’t mean that. You know how he gets sometimes. 

**[Rockstarr] has left that chat**

**From [Frogger]:** Forget those losers, Freddie. It’s okay. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** you wont go rite Todd?? Pleese dont go tonite it will be bAd 

**From [Frogger]:** I gotta, Freddie. You know how it goes. If you can’t beat em, join em. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** ): 

**[Frogger] has left the chat**

**[BippityBlobbityBoo] has left the chat**

* * *

Logan could tell something was up. The small level of trust he'd slowly carved out in the past week had seemingly evaporated. The boys were quiet, attention far too focused on the chili he'd made (sneaking a ton of vegetables in the meaty, red-bean sauce) and poured over cornbread. 

He'd goofed up and put sour cream and cheese on Pietro's portion like all the others, and then guiltily remembered from his time with Kitty that mixing dairy with meat violated the laws of Kashrut. However, Pietro barely seemed to notice or care when Logan swapped out his bowl for a fresh, dairy-free one. 

Maybe he was trying too hard. Kids could sense that stuff; it made them wary. He made a mental note to cool it a little. 

He tried to make eye-contact with the boys from time to time, after the first few aborted attempts to start a conversation fell and died by the wayside. Lance's ears and neck flushed red and he slunk even further into his chair. Todd met Logan's eyes and gave him a strained smile before returning his attention to picking the lentils out of his chili. Pietro stared straight back, a cool challenge in his pale gaze. And Fred... 

Fred looked like he was fighting back tears. 

_What in the..._

"Great dinner Logan!" Pietro exclaimed, bolting down the last of his meal. "It's my turn to do dishes, right? Todd, you're on trash duty." 

"Okay." 

Something was _definitely_ up. 

Fred looked too miserable to talk, so he reached for the one he thought would most easily spill the beans. 

"Alvers, I need your help bringing in some wood planks from the porch." 

Lance had jolted at the sound of Logan saying his name, though he was still furiously avoiding his eyes. "W-where do you want me to put them?" 

"In Fred's room." 

He looked all too eager to scramble up from the dinner table and fetch the wood Logan had sanded, shaped, and stained that afternoon, taking the stairs two at a time all the way up to Fred's bedroom. 

Logan turned to Fred. "You still have homework, right bub? Want my help?" 

Fred, eyes on his empty bowl, shook his head no. When Logan at last gave up and stood, squeezing Fred's shoulder as he did so, he heaved a great, shuddering sigh. 

Lance had dragged all the wood to Fred's room by the time Logan made his way up the stairs and now he stood, surveying it curiously. He was rubbing his jaw like it hurt him, and he jumped when Logan appeared beside him. What had him so guilty? Logan hoped he was about to find out. 

"H-hi," he stuttered. Then, casting about for a subject, he pointed to the piled wood. "So what's all that for?" 

"Fred's been sleeping on the floor since he broke his bed," Logan said, though there was no way Lance didn't know this. "That didn't sit right with me, so I ordered him a new mattress-" here he indicated the plastic-wrapped box propped against the wall "-and am making him a stronger frame myself." 

He'd drawn up some plans for a bed frame strong enough to hold a mattress for Fred's weight that also boasted a single shelf at the headboard to be filled with Fred's impressive collection of vintage comics. He thought it might make the youngest of his charges happy, to have something he enjoyed displayed in his room. 

Lance nodded. Only last night he'd shown interest in Logan's skills at building and fixing, had indicated a desire to learn more. Not so tonight. Tonight, he seemed a million miles away. He rubbed at his jaw again. 

"May I?" Logan asked, holding a hand out, and Lance blinked at him until his meaning clicked. 

He shrugged, then nodded, holding still as Logan took his jaw and angled his head to peer up into his mouth. 

"Well, your twelve-year molars came in fine," Logan observed. "Your wisdom teeth are pushing through crooked, though. They're shoving all the other teeth forward. You'll need to get them removed. I can make you an appointment for that." 

He released Lance and saw the almost imperceptible movement of his head towards his hand before the teen caught himself and stilled. 

Logan had noticed it before, when they'd begun spreading putty over the deep cracks in the walls. Though at first skeptical, hotheaded, and resistant, Lance had begrudgingly allowed himself to open up when it was clear he wouldn't immediately be shot down for it. 

He was just another touch-starved youngster carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders who'd grown up knowing that fighting for what he loved was the only way to keep it. That thought sent a surge of protective emotion through Logan. He would not allow this kid to be hurt on his watch. 

"I've never been to a dentist," Lance admitted, glancing down as though that were something to be ashamed of. "Is it-" 

"It's not scary," Logan said, and Lance's face flushed crimson as his head shot up again. 

"I didn't say I was _scared!"_ he snapped defensively. Logan had to fight back a smile. 

"Nah, I can see you aren't. But it'd be okay if you were. You want me to make that appointment?" 

Lance considered. "I... I guess so." 

Logan reached up to scruffle Lance's tangled dark hair. Lance pressed his head into Logan's hand, so faintly that Logan wondered if he even realized he was doing it. 

"Logan, tonight we-" Lance started to say. 

The sound of Pietro clearing his voice in the doorway had them both turning around. His eyes were fixed on Logan's hand in Lance's hair, narrowed as though he didn't like what he saw. Logan returned the stare. 

"Lance," Pietro said sweetly, and Logan took a step to the side- not too fast, not too slow; natural, as though he couldn't feel the new tension in the room- and bent to start moving the pieces of wood to the far wall. "I need your help with something in my room." 

Logan bit back a frustrated snort. He had such difficulty getting a mental grasp on Magneto's son. He exuded little more than a glossy exterior as far as most emotions ranged, save for the tiny flickerings that nobody could completely control or hide. A whiff of annoyance. A twitch of possessiveness. 

He didn't like Logan, that much was clear. And if it were simple protectiveness, that would at least make sense. Logan could respect being protective over the ones you surrounded yourself with. But this was colder- a dislike of someone else touching his things. 

It was clear that, despite the atypical group posturing, Lance was not the one truly pulling the strings of the Brotherhood. 

Lance, sparing one shrugging, _what-can-ya-do_ grimace Logan's way, followed the younger boy. A moment later, Pietro's bedroom door across the hall clicked shut. 

Though Logan busied himself assembling Fred's bed, his ears were still pricked, listening. They hadn't yet caught on that his powers extended beyond claws and healing, and he worked to keep it that way, never reacting to sounds or scents until they were in a more acceptable range of detectability. They'd catch on eventually, but until then... 

"Did you tell him something?" Pietro sounded bored. 

Predictably, Lance's defenses flared at the unspoken accusation. _"No!_ I didn't say anything." 

"I bet you want out now, though. Since you're all buddy-buddy." 

"I didn't say that either." 

"So you're still going?" 

"I- yeah, Tro. I'm going. I wouldn't make you three go by yourselves." 

"My hero." The sarcasm was quickly followed by the sound of a body hitting the door. Logan paused in his work, head cocked, until Lance made a sound that he was all-too-familiar with after sharing a roof with Scott and Jean. 

Scowling, he decided it was a good time to use the powerdrill, its high-pitched whine blocking out everything else. _Teenagers._

By the time the bed was fully assembled- mattress set in place, dust and wood shavings swept, a few comics he'd lifted from the floor arranged on the neat little shelf- it was approaching ten o' clock, and he was feeling fatigued. Early mornings and physical labor did that to a mutant. 

"Dukes," he called from the doorway, relieved that the activity in Pietro's room had at last fallen silent. "Come upstairs for a minute?" 

Downstairs, his and Todd's voices silenced. They'd been working on Fred's homework together for over an hour- a painstaking process that made it all too clear how far behind Fred was after a lifetime away from any sort of education system. He was far from stupid, but how could he possibly hope to catch up to his peers when he'd never so much as been taught to read properly? It was frustrating and saddening, and Logan could see no easy solution. Frankly, it was miraculous he'd progressed as rapidly as he had already. 

Fred's footsteps fell on the stairs a minute later- the cautious gait of one long used to a world unable to support him. As he stood by Logan's side in the doorway, surprise transformed his face, brightening it in a child's innocent delight. 

"You made this for me?!" 

Logan had to admit it was good craftsmanship. A sturdy wooden bed with rubber soles on each post to prevent skidding or scratching the floors; an attractive, bowed headboard with its shelf and, most importantly, supported by dozens of thick wooden slats underneath the mattress. 

"Test it out," he advised, nudging the boy who towered above his own admittedly compact frame. 

Fred did, approaching the bed, and sat; it didn't so much as groan under his weight. Gaining confidence, he swiveled around and lay flat; it was long enough that his legs didn't dangle. "Wow!" 

"Really spruces up the room, huh?" Logan asked, looking around at the pictures of animals Fred had torn out of magazines and taped to the walls. "It suits you." 

Fred rolled onto his side to face Logan, his clear blue eyes transparently showing the troubles swimming through his mind. Logan waited, using Hank's trick of comfortable silence to give him the option to speak his thoughts. But all Fred said in his soft voice, was, "this is the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me." 

The kick Logan's heart gave to his ribs confirmed that the boy wasn't being hyperbolic with this statement. He ducked his head, unable to formulate an adequate response. 

"Yeah, well," he grunted after a moment. "You can pick out some sheets at the store this weekend. Your blankets will have to do til then." 

He gave the doorframe two raps with his knuckles as he left the room, calling loudly enough for all four boys to hear: "I'm beat, guys. Don't burn the house down. Don't do drugs. Get some sleep." 

Then he let himself into the room he'd taken from Mystique, flopped down on the bed with his face towards the door, and dozed off, knowing he'd wake at the faintest noise. 

His eyes fluttered open when, at precisely eleven thirty, the sound of the jeep pulling out of the driveway roused him. He sat up and reached for his motorcycle's keys.


	3. Pushing Boundaries II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which compromises have to be made.

Fred didn't like this, not at all.

Lance's jeep, new snow tires in place, rolled quietly through darkened side streets, passed Bayville High School, and approached the infamous mansion where the more privileged mutants dreamed. Probably of sugar plums, even though it wasn't yet Christmas. 

Todd saw that he was wringing his hands- a nervous tell he never seemed able to get rid of- and put a chilly palm on top of his wrist to comfort him. Or maybe just because he was cold-blooded and Fred ran hot as a furnace. It was sometimes hard to tell with Todd. 

"Yo, Tro?" Todd called up to the front seat, where Pietro was doing that thing Fred had noticed him doing before, where he clearly wanted to look at Lance but stubbornly refused to do it. He could tell, because Pietro had folded his arms and sat sideways with his back to Lance as much as possible, looking angrily out the window instead. "Do we actually have a plan, or are we just gonna wing it?" 

Asking Pietro questions when he wore that expression was akin to poking a sleeping bear with a stick, Fred thought regretfully, but Todd never could resist a good bear-poke. 

"What, do I have to tell you everything?" Pietro snapped. In the drivers' seat, Lance cringed. "You don't know how to cause a little chaos without my writing you a step-by-step guide?" 

"Winging it is, then," Todd decreed cheerfully, having succeeded in annoying Pietro further. 

Fred wanted dearly to be back at home, in the _awesome_ new bed Logan had made for him. Wearing his thick wool socks and those pajamas Mystique had special-ordered for him (purple, with little space ships, just like he'd asked). He wanted to be reading his comics and maybe, if he was really lucky, waving hello to the owl who lived inside the tree by his window. Logan had bought them hot chocolate packets with tiny dehydrated marshmallows inside, and he could almost hear the warm froth calling to him. 

But, no. Pietro had wanted them to do something bad, something that would almost certainly make Logan go away and hate them forever. And Pietro _always_ got his way. 

The jeep idled in front of the tall mansion gates, the ones that made Fred think of a fairy tale, though he wasn't sure which one yet. Lance pulled the key from the ignition, effectively turning the heat off as well. When Todd shivered, Fred reached for the small jacket he'd brought and slung it over his shoulders. Todd shot him a grateful smile. 

"Well," said Lance, sounding almost as sour as Fred felt. "Here goes nothing." 

Pietro was gone in a burst of silver wind, scaling the gate and tricking the locks before the sensors could detect him. He'd gotten it down to an art form. So long as the X-Men didn't update their security beyond recognition, Pietro could breach their mansion any time he felt like it. 

Fred climbed out of the jeep and, a moment later, felt Todd's familiar weight on his right shoulder. They'd picked up the habit a long time ago. It just made Fred feel safer to have his little buddy in eye-sight, where he wouldn't get squashed underfoot mid-battle. 

When the gates opened, the three of them walked onto Charles' property: Lance in front, with Fred just behind. Pietro joined them, looking smug that the alarms had not sounded. 

The property was just so _pretty._ Sometimes Fred wished he would be invited over to look at the gardens during the daytime. There were so many flowers that closed their petals when the sun went down. They probably attracted all kinds of butterflies and little birds... 

"Hey," Pietro snapped his fingers in Fred's face. "Focus, Blob." 

Fred pouted. This was no fun at all. 

Lance took a wide-legged stance that meant an earthquake was on its way, so Fred made sure to brace his legs and put a steadying palm on Todd's foot as he waited it out. The world rocked wildly around them, rattling the mansion from base to roof. If that didn't get some attention, nothing would. 

Pietro was racing alongside the walls when the world steadied again, banging students' windows with a stick to wake the inhabitants. Fred followed Todd's lead and approached several ground-floor windows so that Todd could make gremlin faces at the teenagers inside. Dreams of sugar plums: officially over. 

"Fred," Pietro said, lowering his trajectory so that he could be heard. "Knock that tree over." 

Fred looked to where Pietro pointed and then crossed his arms, shaking his head. "No way!" he protested. "There's a bluejay nest in _that_ tree." 

"Are you serious?!" Oh, Pietro was definitely mad at him now. Fred didn't care. 

"Yes, I'm serious!" He pointed. "I can see the little speckled eggs!" 

"Oh, man," Todd said. His red pupils had expanded so wide they eclipsed his yellow irises- something that only happened when his adrenalin was really pumping. "We ain't no birdie killers. That's not very punk rock of you, Tro." 

Lance didn't give any warning before his next bout of seismic waving; Fred nearly toppled over and with a _"Yikes!"_ Todd rolled off of him and onto a high tree branch, which he clung to with his strong bowed legs. 

Oh, here came the X-Men at last. Leading the charge was that pretty Brazilian girl Boom-Boom had such a crush on, then the handsome boy that Pietro always talked in a lower voice and fiddled with his hair around, and finally the small one Fred was pretty sure controlled ice, or something like that. They were all in their pajamas, and Fred was instantly jealous. 

"What are _you_ guys doing here?!" the girl demanded, but the handsome boy wasn't in the mood for playing question-and-answer. He leapt into the air, his body morphing into a voided black silhouette while the air around him concentrated and charged into a flaming inferno, and he dove straight for Lance, who ducked at the sound of Fred's warning shout. 

Unable to change trajectory, the boy was instead pelting towards the tree- towards _Todd._ The only one fast enough to save him was Pietro, but he seemed frozen from shock, mouth hanging open in horror as he realized what was happening. 

Then several things happened at once. 

A blurred shape leapt out of _nowhere,_ snagging the teenaged amphibian and rolling to the ground with him. The other boy- Sunspot, Fred finally remembered his pseudonym- crashed full force into the tree. The thin trunk snapped in half and teetered forward, hitting the ground over where the newcomer lay, and Sunspot's blazing body immediately caught the branches on fire. 

"Oh," Fred gasped, seeing where Todd and the blurry shape had disappeared. "Oh no..." He hurried forward, kicking branches aside, and grabbed the shoulders of- Logan?! 

Dragging him backwards, he saw that Logan was cradling a shaking and wide-eyed Todd to his chest, protecting him from the flames. He also saw that Logan's back had been badly burnt in the conflict, the cheap polyester of his sleep t-shirt melting onto skin that was all red and yellow and shiny like a half-baked turkey. 

_That could have been Todd,_ Fred thought in horror. _That could have been my little buddy...!_

Logan had healing powers, Fred knew, but it took him a long moment of looking at the problem to understand the reason why they weren't kicking in. The melted fabric of his shirt, too hot to touch, kept burning and re-burning the abused skin as it struggled to recover. It looked like it hurt something terrible. 

"Hey!" Fred shouted to the others, who were frozen in shock. "Iceman, come here!" 

This snapped most of the group out of their frozen shock. "Mr. _Logan?!"_ Bobby exclaimed, running for his professor. In a shimmer of light his hands became gloves of ice, and he quickly peeled the melted fibers off of Logan, allowing him to heal at last. 

Todd made the tiny _peep_ of a scared froglet and wriggled out of Logan's arms, bounding for Fred. He climbed Fred's shoulder and crouched low, shaking like a leaf. Gradually, the professor sat up, the skin of his back regenerating to new, smooth, unburned flesh. 

Nobody knew what to say after that. 

More and more lights were switching on in the mansion, and with a great thunder of feet, a gaggle of half-dressed students and teachers filled the grounds. One notable figure pushed through to the center of the commotion: the blue, horned Beast. He took one look at Logan on the ground, surrounded by the very out of place Brotherhood, and cleared his throat. 

He spoke quietly, but he didn't need to shout. Everybody quieted for him. 

"Everyone, back to your rooms," he said. "Except you, Bobby, if you'd be so kind-" 

The Iceman nodded and began putting out the fire that engulfed the thin tree. After a moment, Sunspot, now returned to his more standard form, rolled out from underneath the wreckage and stood, groaning and rubbing his head where he'd hit the trunk. 

"Boys," the Beast said, and it was clear by his tone that he addressed the Brotherhood now. "You'll come with me to the library and we _will_ discuss this." 

Todd groaned. Oh boy; they were sure in trouble now. 

Not even Pietro could argue with him. Beast bent down and took Logan's hand, helping him to his feet, and slid a steadying arm around his waist as they progressed inside the mansion. 

A niggling concern stopped Fred, and he turned back. In the branches of the tree, he found the jay's nest, miraculously unharmed. He carefully extracted it from leaves and thorns, and handed it to Bobby. 

"Put it somewhere close enough for their mama to find," he instructed, too embarassed to make eye-contact with the other teenager. "But high enough that no cats get it. Got it?!" 

Looking bewildered, Bobby just nodded. 

* * *

Nobody but Hank would serve tea and cookies in the midst of delivering a blistering scolding. 

The four boys were squeezed on the two-cushion loveseat across from Hank's recliner, and Fred was holding on to Todd as though he believed that to release him was to send him back to the fire. Lance took the remainder of the cushion that was not crushed under Fred's bulk, pressed so closely they could probably feel each other's heartbeats. Pietro sat on the arm of the seat, legs crossed, and examined his fingernails in a coolly disinterested manor that stood in stark contrast to the hangdog expressions of the other three. 

When Hank slammed a motley collection of mugs on the coffee table, everybody jumped and watched, owl-eyed, as he filled all six with steaming water from a kettle. He was muttering darkly to himself as he stuffed a Chamomile tea bag into each. _"Irresponsible,"_ _"ridiculous,"_ and _"a school, not a circus,"_ were repeated the most often. Logan noticed, not without soft amusement, that the fur on the right side of his face was pressed flat from his pillow: he'd scrambled out of bed without glancing in the mirror to brush it out. 

Hank shoved a tin of lavender shortbread cookies at the boys like it was a weapon, snapping, _"Eat."_

Looking frankly terrified, three of the four accepted the cookies. When it became clear that Pietro was not going to move, Hank snorted, and the tin joined the mugs on the table. Only then did he turn his gaze onto where Logan stood awkwardly in the doorway. "And _you,"_ he growled, eyes blazing. 

Logan tried to smile at his friend, hoping to lighten the mood. "Hey, Bigfoot. Missed you. Could I get some of that nice whiskey I know you keep in your room-" 

"You get tea," Hank said, voice clipped, and dragged Logan towards him by the wrists. Not many people, mutant or otherwise, were capable of manhandling a dense stack of muscle and metal like Logan, but Hank did so easily, flipping him around with his long arms and ridding him of the tatty, charred remainders of his shirt. Even Pietro was unable to mask his surprise when Hank withdrew a tube of lotion from the pocket of his bathrobe- no froufrou scents, just aloe and oatmeal- and began slathering it none-too-gently on the new skin Logan had just regrown. 

Logan just sighed. He appreciated it- new skin was always tender, stretched tight, and dried out way too fast- but was this really necessary to do in front of the boys? How embarrassing. Still, he'd known Hank long enough to see a pattern in the way his worry often manifested as anger. 

"So," Hank said. "Who wants to start telling me about what happened tonight?" 

Under his piercing stare, Fred was the first to crack. 

"We didn't mean to," he muttered into his mug. "The plan was for Logan to see that we're bad and get tired of us." 

Logan couldn't see Hank's face, but he imagined the exasperated, perplexed expression he must be wearing. Carefully, he turned to look at him. 

"I've been stayin' with them this past week," he said, shooting the boys a glance. "Guess they didn't want me around anymore and instead of _talkin'_ to me about it, they decided to act like _children-"_ Here Pietro's expression darkened. Logan had guessed he was the instigator here, but that tiny, annoyed flicker of eyebrow and mouth confirmed it as much as a written confession. "- and start trouble _here."_

Hank frowned, but stepped back and handed him the fabric he'd folded over one arm- a soft T-shirt he'd taken from Logan's bedroom. Giving a grateful smile, Logan pulled it on and then dragged the piano bench to the middle of the room, sitting kitty-corner to both chair and loveseat. Following his lead, Hank sat too. 

"I don't understand," Hank said, and he sounded calmer than he had earlier. The fur under his chin curled when steam from his mug wafted over it. 

"I-" Logan unconsciously chewed into his lower lip, wondering how to say it. Blunt directness was his preferred form of communication, but he didn't want to be making enemies with these kids. "When I dropped Maximoff at their house last week, it was brought to my attention that Raven is no longer staying with them." 

Hank quirked his head; the shadow of his horns was long in the lamplight. "Where is she?" 

He looked to the boys for an answer. Finally, Todd muttered, "She left us a few months ago. Haven't heard from her since." 

Now Hank turned an exasperated stare onto Logan. "So, in true bullheaded Wolverine fashion, you decided to just... show up on your own steam without telling anyone and start playing Mary Poppins?" 

Logan's grin was sheepish. Hank knew him too well. "... Maybe?" 

"And how well has that worked out for you?" 

Logan was not going to hang his head like a scolded schoolboy. He kept his focus steady. "We're still workin' out a few issues, but the situation has improved. For example, there's no more broken glass or moldy spots in _every single room of the house."_

Hank knew Logan didn't mince words. If Logan said the situation at the Brotherhood house was unacceptably uninhabitable, then it was. 

"We're obligated to report your guardian's abandonment of you to child protective services," he said, turning to the group on the loveseat. There was regret in his eyes: he, like Logan, was beginning to see the full tragedy of their situation. 

"That's not fair!" Pietro burst out; the first words he'd spoken since they'd been brought into the small sitting room. "Lance turns eighteen next October and then-" 

"Then what?" Logan rumbled. He sounded more gruff than he should have; it had irked him, this plan of Pietro's to get him out of their hair. Sneaky dishonesty was a pet-peeve of his. "You'll be just fine in a falling-apart house; no money, no food, no water, no-" 

"We don't _need_ you!" Pietro barked, fists and jaw clenched tight. "And if you call CPS, they'll take us away. They'll _separate_ us. We'll probably have to change schools _again._ They'll stick us in human homes and we'll just have to hide again because no foster home wants a _freak!"_

He was speaking from experience. Logan remembered his words to Lance back on that first day- _"You've been in the system longer than I have."_

"I don't want to do this either," Hank said softly, and Logan heard the sincerity in his voice. "But we don't know how to help you if you won't let us. We _can't_ leave you alone, no matter how much you think we should. You'll understand someday if you ever have kids in your responsibility." 

Todd gave a bitter sort of laugh, scuffing the toe of his shoe into the thick carpet. It was a strange sound coming from one normally so jovial and boisterous as him. "Every time grown-ups get involved, yo, we're the ones who get screwed. You know where I was before Mystique tracked me down? Squatting in a little abandoned church. Yeah, I had to pickpocket or dumpster dive for food, but you know what? Nobody was telling me how to live my life. Nobody was telling me I had to do _anything_ just because I'm like this." 

He held up a hand; the warm lamplight glowed through the thin skin that webbed his fingers. 

Fred stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. It was clear he'd never once guessed that his friend was unhappy. 

"And then adults come along," Todd continued, heating onto his theme. "And then it's all, _you have to go to school-_ and isn't that a riot; everyone treats ya like you're worse than trash there- and people think just cuz they've got a few years on you, they can tell ya when to go to bed and what to eat and suddenly everything about you is _wrong."_

He lapsed into silence at last, then shrugged. "It's whatever." 

"It's not 'whatever,' Todd," Hank argued. "This communication is good. I'm glad you've spoken your mind. Does anyone else have something to add to this discussion?" 

Fred and Lance were remaining awfully quiet. Logan suspected he knew why- of the four, those two had responded the most positively to his presence. It seemed, despite their tough demeanors, they didn't entirely hate a measure of stability and assistance in their lives. Perhaps they had some good memories of past foster or biological parents in their arsenal. Whatever the reason, they wanted Logan to stay, but didn't want to speak up and cross Pietro or undermine Todd. 

Pietro, though. It was no surprise at all that he did not see any sort of paternal figure in a positive light. Even in their brief interactions, Logan knew that Magneto, worse than being merely neglectful, was manipulative and abusive both physically and mentally towards his child. It was possible that Pietro's lashing out at Logan was really just misplaced aggression towards someone he _couldn't_ lash out at. 

He leaned forward now, arms on his elbows, and looked straight into Hank's eyes. "What do we have to do," he said quietly. "To keep the authorities out of this?" 

And, to Hank's credit, he responded seriously, treating Pietro like the adult he so wanted to be. "We can't. Not entirely. If you were willing to accept temporary guardianship from a government certified caregiver- say, for example, Charles, Logan, Ororo, or myself- then we could at least guarantee that the four of you remain together. That will require legal action and paperwork, but it also means that you don't have to change schools or homes." 

Pietro considered. "My father-" 

"Your father won't like it. But he also can't argue too concretely with it. He requested the four of you be put in Mystique's care, and she is gone. Legally, if we cross our T's and dot our I's, there's nothing he can do unless he wants to fight for your custody, which he relinquished when he left you in the foster system, himself." The wry twist to Hank's mouth suggested how he thought that outcome would turn out. 

Pietro, too, looked as though he didn't think his father would be interested in going the legal- _human-_ route, but he seemed to relax slightly. "Fine. But not Charles. There's no way I'm calling _him_ dad." 

Fred frowned. "You mean we're being adopted?" 

Hank shook his head. "Guardianship and adoption are different procedures, although guardianship can eventually become an official adoption if all parties are agreeable and, of course, even more paperwork is filled out. You don't actually have to call anyone 'dad', Fred." 

"I want Logan," Lance said, so suddenly and unexpectedly that everyone turned to look at him. His arms were folded and his brow furrowed, as though forcing himself to speak was an effort. "I mean. If we're really doing this... Then I want it to be Logan. He's proven he's... okay." 

To be considered 'okay' by any of the boys surprised Logan. He wondered what had tipped the scales in his favor, wondered whether it was his instinctive rescuing of Todd that had officially determined his status in Lance's eyes. It was surprisingly sweet. 

"Logan," Hank said. "Would you agree to this?" 

Logan considered it. The youngest of the boys- Fred- was fifteen. That meant that for the next three years- and it _would_ be a full three; he wasn't going to back down once he'd started- he'd have legal responsibility of kids who'd proven over and over again to be pure trouble, with the law and otherwise. Kids Charles had looked at one-by-one and decreed unworthy to join the X-Men. It would be three years of struggle and aggravation. 

He thought of the shadows between Pietro's ribs. 

He thought of how Todd had trembled in his arms when he'd pulled him away from the fire. 

He thought of the earnestness in Fred's voice: _"This is the nicest thing anybody's ever done for me."_

He thought of Lance leaning his head into his hand. 

It wasn't really a question at all. He'd known the answer all along. "I'll do it," he said, and then grinned a little. "On one condition: No more starting any sort of fight before breakfast."


	4. State the Problem

The caseworker Hank had pulled some strings to hire was a study in the gradient of beige. Her unstyled bob haircut was black as a crow's feathers, her skin a mahogany brown. The sweater, midi-skirt, and pantyhose she wore were lighter shades of the color, and the large, faux-leather bag tucked under her arm was a glossy chestnut. Despite the skirt, she was about as feminine as a boulder: her shoulders Olympic-swimmer broad and her stance wide-legged with easy confidence.

"I'm Keisha Morrow, social worker," she introduced herself, her voice low and warm, when he opened the door. He wagered that she was somewhere in her mid to late thirties. "Please call me Keisha." She stuck a calloused hand in his face. After a moment's pause, basic courtesy dictated he take it and give it a shake. 

"Pietro Maximoff," he greeted, without much enthusiasm. 

"Ah," she nodded. "The younger of the Maximoff twi-" 

In a heartbeat, he'd seized her by the upper arms and dashed halfway across the block. She was heavier than he would have expected, and looked both unafraid and unamused when he set her down by a fire-hydrant. He used his height advantage to loom imposingly over her. "We don't talk about my sister, okay?" 

"Mr. Maximoff," she said coolly, meeting his eyes and tucking her ruffled hair behind one small, unpierced ear. "Are you threatening me? I wouldn't advise it." 

"I-" She was right. Threatening a government employee was never a good idea. He took a moment to compose himself and paste on a pleasant, beseeching smile. "Of course not. But as she does not have anything to do with the current situation and I consider it a very personal matter, I'd like the fact that I have living family other than my father kept confidential." 

"I see." Her eyes were such a dark brown that they blended into her pupil, but there was a gold ring around the rim of each iris that glinted in the weak November sunlight. He wondered whether she was a mutant, or if she was just a human with unusual eyes. If she owed favors to such a prominent activist as Hank, it was likely they both ran in the same pro-mutant political circles. "I agree that it's not necessary to speak about her with the others, but I'd be interested to hear why you feel the need for such secrecy." 

She waited. Pietro did not answer. 

At last she cleared her throat. "Well, then. I've never been late to a meeting before, and I see no reason to start now." She set off at a brisk pace back towards the boarding house, her sensible ivory heels _click, click_ ing on the pavement. After an uncomfortable pause, Pietro followed her back to the house. 

Logan had been up for hours the night before using a chisel to break hunks of Todd-slime from the outside of the house; they became brittle in the chill night air and shattered easily enough, but the place still looked shabby. 

Keisha paused in the entryway a moment after he let her inside, so he stood with her, wondering what she was waiting for. The air smelled like breakfast (omelettes and turkey bacon). In the kitchen, Fred and Logan were still paging through some of the cookbooks Logan had picked out at the library after a good-natured comment from Lance that everything Logan cooked was some form of soup. 

"I want to make _that,"_ Fred was saying. 

"Alright, bub, but remember: you only get to cook two things this week. I'd rather you focus on school. Finish the semester strong." 

From Lance's bedroom, Pietro could hear the soft plucking of guitar strings. 

"Why don't I introduce you," Pietro said, and the social worker smiled- a professional quirk of lips that showed no teeth- and took his proffered arm. Pausing at the base of the stairs he called up, "Todd! Lance! Time to come down!" 

He closed his eyes, cringing silently, when Todd shouted, "It's time for _your mom_ to come down!" 

At least Keisha's smile looked, fleetingly, genuine. 

"The social worker is _here,_ Todd," Pietro said through gritted teeth. 

"Is she hot?" 

"Her girlfriend seems to think so," Keisha responded, and there was a thump and a squawk as Todd fell off of his bed at the sound of an unfamiliar female voice. 

"I'm so sorry." Somehow, Todd's lack of couth seemed more embarrassing than Pietro's own previous aggressive behavior. He angled her towards the kitchen, where Logan had turned their way at the sound of the conversation. The older mutant finished drying his dish-soapy hands off with a towel before offering one to Keisha. 

"Hello, Ms. Morrow. I'm Logan. Uh, Howlett. Would you like some water? Coffee?" 

He looked nervous as they shook hands, which was interesting. Shouldn't Logan be used to authority figures forcing him to sign on dotted lines? 

"You must be Fred," she greeted the teenager in the kitchen, tilting her head back to make eye-contact. She didn't look in the least intimidated by his size. "And yes, Mr. Howlett, I'd love some coffee."

Logan poured her a mug as she made herself quite at home at their battered table, setting her bag by her feet and unclasping it before fanning five manila folders out. By then, Todd and Lance had trudged downstairs. 

"I want coffee," Todd said, reaching for the pot, completely unabashed of the earlier interaction. 

"No," Lance and Pietro said in stern unison. When Logan and Keisha shot amused glances their way, Lance shrugged and explained, "It's not pretty when he's caffeinated." 

Pouting, Todd slumped into his usual seat with his back to the window, elbow to elbow with Keisha. "Yo." he smiled, friendly and chipper as usual around new people. "I'm Todd." 

To her credit, she didn't hesitate before shaking his webbed hand. Most people, Pietro included, couldn't resist staring upon first meeting. He was just so odd looking, from his yellow eyes to his green-tinted pallor to the way his limbs bunched under him. It took some getting used to. 

After Pietro had elbowed Lance in the ribs, he too awkwardly introduced himself, and everyone sat. Pietro didn't realize he was jiggling his leg anxiously under the table until Lance hooked a socked foot around his ankle. He tried to ignore the warm flutter it sent through his chest. Stupid Lance and his stupid cow-eyed expressions. It was made all the worse because Logan had growled at everyone until they showered. A freshly showered Lance had very fluffy hair that Pietro was continuously tempted to pat. 

Pietro wasn't the only fidgety one. Everyone jumped a little when Logan accidentally knocked over the salt shaker, sending white granules dancing across the table as it rolled. Fred, shooting him a concerned glance, righted the plastic container and helped him sweep the mess up. Logan's face had gone red. Keisha, stirring sugar into her drink, kindly pretended not to notice. 

"So," she said brightly, looking up at last when everyone watched her expectantly, and Pietro inwardly groaned. He knew that brassy tone. That was the voice of someone who'd taken a few Child Psychology 101 classes about to use some finger puppets and crayons to get a group of at-risk youth to confess their _feelings._ He'd been through this circus a time or twenty since his father had abandoned his ass at a Shell gas station and spent the next four years pretending he didn't have a son. "Mr. McCoy tells me that you five are interested in becoming a _family."_

Pietro smirked at Lance. They'd discussed the incestuous implications the night before until, groaning in disgust, Lance had thrown a pillow, a bundle of socks, and a paperback novel at him. Now Lance glared, but there was the tiniest hitch to one corner of his mouth: he was fighting a smile. Victory was sweet. 

"Yes," said Logan. "I- oh, shit- _shoot."_ He'd managed to knock over the pepper shaker as well, and looked furious at himself for it. "I'm so sorry," he admitted. "I'm really nervous. I wanted to make a good impression." 

"Frankly, Mr. Howlett," said Keisha. "If you _weren't_ nervous, we might have a problem." She smiled at Logan's blank expression and leaned in to conspiratorially whisper, "that means I'm glad you give a shit." 

"Oh snap," Todd grinned wickedly, looking like his birthday had come early. Pietro arched a singular eyebrow. Maybe this was going to be interesting after all.

The hour-long meeting they'd scheduled ran a little over, but it passed quickly enough. They went around the table discussing their goals and objectives. Basic histories were touched upon- previous foster homes, medical history insofar as whether Mystique had their immunization records up to date (she did). Keisha never once mentioned Wanda, and that was all Pietro could ask of her. 

"Before we do a home tour," she said towards the forty-five minute mark. "I'd like you all to really think about what you hope to gain from your time together. Who would like to share some thoughts first?" 

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes again. All things considered, she'd kept the cheesy questions to a minimum. Maybe it was a legal requirement that she ask at least one. 

When nobody spoke, Logan had to break the silence. "I want... to be able to keep all the boys together. Just. Help 'em out, if I can." He gave a rueful smile. "Stop them from blowing up anything too important." He was gruff- it was clear speaking his feelings aloud wasn't a preferred hobby of his. 

Todd hopped on the easy opening left by Logan's response. "Yeah, I want to stay together with everyone." Pietro's prediction of the Brotherhood being split apart had apparently bothered him more than he let on under that lackadaisical mask he usually wore. 

Sweet Fred was next. "Logan makes our home better," he said in his rumbly voice, hands folded in front of him. "I like it when he's here." 

Pietro risked a glance at Logan's face and saw that his eyes had gone a little soft at Fred's remark. It was all so wholesome that he considered the ramifications of blowing something important up just to spite their new guardian. 

Lance knew it was between him and Pietro next, and he didn't even bother to fight that battle of stubborn. "I just." He shrugged. "I wanna get through the year, you know? I want all of us to be okay. We weren't really okay before." He avoided Pietro's sharp glance, knowing the other boy would continue to insist that, actually, they were doing fine without Logan. 

Everyone, aside from Lance, then looked expectantly at Pietro. _Fuck._ He'd half-hoped they'd just know not to include him. Damn unspoken social niceties. What did he want from Logan?! Aside from him just packing up and leaving, which was looking less and less likely by the minute.

"I want..." he said, biting the inside of his cheek. "I want... to get on with it. If we're going to do this, let's quit beating around the bush." 

"So you want Logan to be your guardian, Pietro?" Those inscrutable gold-brown eyes were sizing him up, and he hated it. 

"Sure." 

In the end, it was only paperwork. He and everyone in this room knew who really owned Pietro, and no matter how many signatures there were on a piece of legal paper court-stamped by whatever judge Bayville had to offer, it changed nothing. 

Keisha held his gaze for a moment. There was something birdlike about her eerie stillness. She was the first to look away, and it felt like a physical weight being lifted from their shoulders. "Alright," she said. "Now about the house tour-" 

Downstairs was only the kitchen, laundry/mud room, and television/living room, so the majority of the cursory look around the boarding house took place upstairs. Logan had urged they all clean their rooms. Pietro's room, of course, was neat and impersonal as a doctor's office. The polar opposite was Fred's room, homey and sweet with his animal pictures and his comics and his new sheets printed with violets stretched over the bed. 

Lance had tried to clean his room, but it was painfully clear he didn't actually know how to do it, just shuffling piles from one corner to another. Todd hadn't even done that much. The empty bedroom Rogue once occupied now stood empty save for a naked twin bed, side-table, and set of shelves. 

Stretched between were long hallways (Lance and Logan had filled the seismic cracks and were testing several paints on the walls in patches to determine the best color), new windows with ugly putty holding them to the sills, a bathroom that had taken the five of them a significant amount of effort to piece back together (Logan had built shelves into the wall and the showers to hold the toiletries of four boys with very questionable hygiene), and at the very end, Mystique-slash-Logan's bedroom with its tiny en suite bathroom. 

"I didn't, uh, know what to do with her stuff," Logan explained. "I had to go through it all to find the boys' records, and then I just boxed it. If anyone knew where she was, I'd tell her to come get it, but..." He shrugged, nudged at one of the box-piles with his toe. 

Pietro suspected Mystique was still shacking up with Magneto, licking her wounds and letting him test his enhancements on her. She'd be back sooner or later; wouldn't _that_ be an interesting day? 

"I'm sure we could arrange a storage unit in her name." Keisha made a note in one of her file folders. "It looks like all is in order here- running water, no unsafe elements." 

Logan looked a little proud at this statement, and Pietro fought not to scoff. Fucking handyman. 

It was all polite goodbyes and rescheduling for a second meeting after that, until at last they were rid of her- for now. 

Pietro slunk off to his room before anyone could ask him to do anything else. 

* * *

Pietro was sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, his back to the television upon which two talk show hosts chatted quietly about current films. He had a stack of all the new clothes they'd purchased that day folded next to him, and his attention was focused on a pair of Todd's jeans, marking them at the knees. His heartbeat was slower than Logan was accustomed to. Still fast by any standard, but it was by far the closest to a relaxed state he'd ever seen Pietro.

Studying the bowed line of his shoulders, the fine bones of his face, Logan could see the man he'd one day grow to be. He certainly resembled his father with that long face, that shock of colorless hair and olive skin, but that wasn't all he was. There was a softness to his features- the wider eye, the arch to his nasal bridge- that spoke of other influences. He would not be a carbon copy of Magneto. 

Maybe it was time Logan stopped thinking of him as such. 

Not wanting to startle him by appearing so suddenly, Logan backed up a few steps and then intentionally allowed a floorboard to creak under his socked foot as he approached. Pietro didn't turn around, but his shoulders did stiffen when Logan passed him and went into the kitchen, returning to the living room with a bottle of pop and another of those nutrition smoothies, setting the latter next to the boy. He lowered onto the couch and ticked the television volume up a few notches. 

"You're up late." 

That Hank had spoken those exact words to him on innumerable occasions made him smile a little. The fuzzy guy's influence was starting to rub off. 

"I'm always up late." 

Was he? Logan went to bed pretty early these days, but he figured the boys were always fairly close behind. 

Pietro looked around, picking up a white crayon, a box of straight pins, and a thin paper with several needles threaded through it, clearly looking for something. 

"There's a hook-thing by your knee," Logan pointed out, and Pietro lifted and frowned at the pencil-sized rod with the metal hook on the end as though it had done him mortal wrong. Logan wondered if he shouldn't have said anything at all. 

Then, shrugging, Pietro moved Todd's jeans and began using the hook to rip seams in the legs with the ease of an expert. 

"What are you doing?" 

Pietro looked at him so shrewdly that Logan suspected he'd ignore the question. But finally, with a slight tilt of his jaw, he gave a little. 

"You know how he sits like this?" He did a passable imitation of Todd's crouch. Logan nodded. "It wears out the knees and thighs of his pants. I'm just letting out some more room. Makes them last longer." 

Setting the seam-ripper aside, he flipped the jeans-leg inside out, pulling free the extra fabric that had been tucked into the seam, and started realigning the edges, holding them in place with pins. He worked so quickly and efficiently that the blur of his hands was almost hypnotizing, and Logan remembered Rogue's complaint of Pietro's nonstop-whirlwind brain. 

"What do you do with Lance's jeans?" he asked, noticing the larger size in the pile. 

"Lance has a slight nickel allergy. He says he doesn't, but his skin is always blotchy where the button touches him, so I sew a patch under the little knobby thing." 

He seemed to realize, too late, that this implied he knew what Lance's skin looked like under his jeans. The tips of his ears pinked. Logan kept his blank-faced attention on the TV as Pietro anxiously glanced his way, checking to see if he'd registered the implication as well. 

"That's smart thinking," Logan said, neutrally. "What else do you do?" 

It was relief that he hadn't been called out that had him answering, "Reinforce the seams at Fred's shoulders. His arms are big, so. Sometimes they split." 

It was strange, thinking of disaffected, aloof Pietro working to extend the life of the Brotherhood's bargain bin clothing. It made Logan feel protective all over again. 

He jabbed his thumb with a pin; Logan smelled blood a moment before Pietro hissed a soft _"fuck,"_ and stuck the thumb into his mouth, brow furrowed in consternation. 

"Am I bothering you?" Logan asked, then inwardly kicked himself. Of _course_ he was both distracting and bothering the teen. He should just make an excuse to go and then leave him to his work. 

"No," Pietro snapped a little too vehemently. He was so contrary he wouldn't even accept the results he wanted. "Stay." 

Logan stayed. 

Pietro waited for the blood to stop flowing before he resumed his pinning. 

Logan's attention was caught by the television when a female news anchor said, _"- the petition for statewide marriage equality will not be discussed further at this time."_

"Fucking straight people," he couldn't help but snort. _That_ got Pietro's attention. 

"What, you're not?" he asked disbelievingly. "Straight, I mean." 

"Don't recall ever saying I was." Logan flipped the channel to a cooking segment- it seemed less likely to piss him off. 

"Huh." Pietro shrugged, feigning disinterest. "I just assumed." 

Silence fell for a while, long enough for Pietro to finish letting out the seams on Todd's final pair of jeans, re-align the edges, and begin pinning the fabric. Then he asked, "you, uh. You got a boyfriend? Girlfriend?" 

This was almost entertaining. For once, _Pietro_ was the curious one. 

"I've been around." 

"But no one currently." 

"Kid, you're not my type." 

He shouldn't have said it, but the way Pietro's face surpassed pink and went straight to crimson had him fighting back a grin even as he cursed himself for ruining the moment. 

"That's not what I-" Pietro sputtered. "You _know_ I- God, why are you _so-"_

"So what?" Logan prompted, when Pietro fell into a sullen silence, stabbing denim with pins like he clearly wished to stab Logan. This was good, right? Connection? Honesty? 

Or maybe he was making everything worse. 

"You're so..." Pietro took a breath. Red faded to pink, which resumed its normal tone only a moment later, like his feathers had never been ruffled at all. "You're a mistake," he said finally. 

Well. Damn. 

"What makes you say that?" Logan asked carefully, television completely forgotten. 

Pietro seemed to be at war with himself before, evidentially, opting to speak his mind. He looked up, meeting Logan with a frost-colored glare. 

"You break into our house and set up shop like you own the place. You change everything when it's all going _just fine._ You convince Fred and Lance that you're some... some... _dad_ who can solve all their problems. But I know better. We don't know anything about you, but I still know you'll hurt them, and then who will be there to pick them up and put them back together? Me. It's _always_ me. If you had even a shred of kindness, you'd leave now before you broke them completely." 

He fell silent, leaving Logan to process this. Then he began shoving tools into his bag, grabbed up his armful of clothes, and made for the hall. Logan stood too, reaching for his arm, but the look in Pietro's eyes stopped him cold. It was a very clear _touch-me-and-die_ scowl. Logan dropped his hand, took a step back, and lowered his eyes, same as he would with any trapped animal. 

"What can I do?" He asked quietly, after a moment of charged silence. "I can't let you carry the world on your own. _You'll_ break. Let me help you." 

"You're sixteen years too late," Pietro replied, just as quietly, jaw clenched, Adams apple bobbing from the force of his swallow. He believed every word he said, and that made it all the more bleak. "Sixteen years of experiments, torture, abandonment too late. We already have a father. I don't need a _dad."_

His words fell like knives, but one struck harder than the others. "We?" Logan asked. 

Panic skittered across Pietro's features as he realized his slip. Logan made the mistake of blinking, and he was gone in a silver gust. 


	5. Gathering Information

The undetectable, unpredictable, brilliant and (of course) _incredibly handsome_ toad-ninja focused sharp eyes on his victim, creeping along the ceiling with pinpoint precision. His prey never even saw it coming when... 

_"Gotcha!"_

Fred smiled when Todd abruptly dropped onto his back. "Hey, little buddy," he greeted cheerfully, and continued stirring the contents of his mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. 

Todd pouted. Pietro was _much_ more fun to sneak up on. He usually screamed and dropped whatever he was holding; sometimes he ran for it and was halfway to the school before he realized it was only Todd clinging to him. Fred just didn't spook as much. 

"What are you making?" he asked, after he got over his brief sulking silence. He watched Fred sprinkle a heavy snowfall of cinnamon into the gloopy mixture without bothering to measure. 

"This is pumpkin sheetcake," Fred said, not minding at all as Todd got comfortable on his back because he was using his arms too much for an adequate shoulder-perch. "Macaroni in the oven. I'm gonna grill some asparagus with-" 

"Okay, okay, stop," Todd laughed. "I'm gonna drool down your shirt, dude. How do you know how to _make_ stuff like this?" 

"It's not hard," Fred shrugged. "Mom cooked all the time at home. Still does, probably. I was her little helper." 

Todd wisely held his tongue. His hatred of Fred's family burned with the heat of a thousand infernos. How anyone could look at their kid and decide, _'hey, actually, I just don't love him anymore,'_ especially for something they couldn't even help, was beyond him. 

Sure, he himself hadn't had much of a homelife, living on the streets and all, but he'd never once doubted that _his_ mother loved him. _She_ would have stood by his side forever, had she only survived the pneumonia. _Fred's_ parents... 

"It's okay," Fred said quietly, adding roasted pecans from a pan on the stove into the mix. "I know talking about them makes you mad. We can talk about something else." 

Todd sighed. He'd never intended to care about Freddie. Or any of them, really. They were just marks to be used, like anybody else. Only... it was hard not to love Fred. Or Lance, once you realized just how thin his armor ran, how much of a marshmallow he really was. 

Pietro was harder to love, to be sure. He just didn't hold with it. He fought and _fought_ you all all the way down with fang and claw, and even after he accepted it, begrudgingly, furiously- he remained prickly as a cactus. He expected you to take it back at any time, preparing himself for a loss he saw as inevitable. He was made of secrets and stress knots, and to untangle either might crumble him into dust. 

So, no. He'd never intended to love these three disasters. But love had happened anyway, and he just had to roll with it: messy, counter-intuitive, and irreversible. He was the only one of the Brotherhood with enough self-awareness to call it like it was. 

He eyed the kitchen full of groceries he'd purchased with Lance earlier in the day. Logan had given them a large sum of money and a list a mile long. Everything from enormous bags of cereal and trays of kosher beef to toothpaste and an economy-sized bottle of multivitamins. 

They'd had to borrow his truck; a weeks' worth of food for five mutants simply wouldn't have fit inside Lance's jeep. It was fun, in a strange sort of way, driving together just the two of them with the radio blasting, but actually paying for the groceries they bought was a trip in and of itself. Lance had gone pale and jelly-legged when he heard the total bill, and Todd had had to prop him up against his side to keep him from slipping to the floor. 

Lance had approached Logan like a man walking the plank after their shopping trip, handing him the receipt with a shaking hand. If he wasn't careful, he was going to give himself another stress-migraine. Todd had watched their new official guardian's nostrils flare just slightly, as though he could smell Lance's fear, and then he'd turned his animal eyes onto the boys. Todd noticed little things like that- knew Logan was more creature than man; a being of instincts and sharp senses, sharper than he wanted them to know. One animal recognized another, after all. "You did a good job," was all he'd said. "Thanks." 

Lance was likely upstairs self-medicating now from the sheer shock of that many zeros on one receipt. 

When Fred pulled out a baking pan and greased it, Todd drummed the top of his head. "Didja hear? Lance is gonna get his teeth jerked out tomorrow. I saw some videos online of people loopy off the drugs they give you for that- think we can get away with filming him?" 

Fred snickered a little at the thought of a loopy Lance, then quickly amended- "We shouldn't do that, though. He'd get so cranky." 

"Aww, come on. Think of the views we could get on that baby. We could put it on your blog and start monetizing it with ads-" 

Firmly, Fred said, _"My_ blog is only for pictures of cool animals." He spooned the creamy glop onto the pan, spreading it smooth. 

"I'm pretty sure Lance is some kind of animal. I mean, he's so fuzzy when he hasn't shaved, and have you seen his knees? Seriously-" 

They bantered playfully like this while Fred traded the place of the lasagna pan containing bubbly, crispy-on-top macaroni and cheese in the oven with that of the cake pan, then set the timer for another half hour, before wandering off to Todd's room to play on the hand-held video game he'd "borrowed" from Dickbag Duncan's bag. (He'd give it back eventually. Probably. Maybe.) 

As far as late Sunday afternoons went, this one was pretty much perfect. 

* * *

"Mr. Logan!"

The familiar rattle of a certain station wagon roused the Wolverine from where he was carefully re-setting the faux-wood slats of the floor where they'd been sticking up in the front room. He cleaned his hands off, stepped into his work boots, and walked to the front door in time to see Hank's 1983 wood-paneled Ford Squire, filled to the brim with kids, round the corner. He hid his smile behind the coffee mug he picked up from the side-table. 

"Mr. Logan, Mr. Logan!" 

Now that they were closer, he could more easily identify the individual kids calling for him, waving frantically out the windows. 

From above the front door, where he'd been clinging to the wall, Todd inched down and peeked out as well. "What are they doing here?" he asked, close to Logan's ear. 

Logan knew he was meant to be startled. Todd had taken to climbing the ceilings and dropping onto passersby- the first time it'd happened, Lance's shrieks had woken the entire house- but Logan could always smell and hear him long before a new weight had fallen onto his back. This frustrated Todd, which was fairly entertaining. 

"I guess we're about to find out," he said, and offered a shoulder for Todd to climb down on. 

The station wagon, which was half dinosaur and probably belonged in a museum, rattled to a less-than-graceful parallel park along the sidewalk. The six doors creaked open like dragonfly wings and a plethora of children came spilling out, running for their professor in an unstoppable wave of reaching arms. 

Leading the charge was Half-Pint, who threw herself at Logan, heedless of the odiferous toad on his shoulder. "You've been gone for _ever!"_

He caught her, hugging her back- but only for a moment; no need to let them think he'd gone _soft_ or something- and ruffled the hair of a few others who had clustered around him like overexcited puppies, talking over one another, so loud in their eagerness to be heard that he could make out no individual words. 

Looking over Kurt's pointed ears, he angled a _Look_ at Hank, who was standing back by the car and grinning unabashedly. "Nice of you to drop by," he drawled at the other professor, the sarcastic added bite of _without any warning_ audible in his tone. 

In the week and a half since Logan had seen him last, he'd grown his winter coat- a luxurious nest of icy white and periwinkle fur dense enough to obscure the hardness of his chest and arms like the fluffiest blanket in the world, making him look more like a Yeti than a Bigfoot. He'd managed to wriggle his largest turtleneck over all the fuzz, but hadn't bothered with a jacket. 

"Yeah, I thought it was too," Hank smirked, the bastard. He then deigned to offer an explanation: "The kids were missing you, and wondered what was up with you turning up in the middle of the night with-" he inclined his head towards the parka-clad Todd, who's teeth were beginning to clatter from the cold. "I thought we owed them an explanation. Don't worry; I covered the basics on the ride over." 

"I can't believe you're _leaving us,"_ Kurt wailed theatrically. "Weren't we good enough for you?" 

He was joking, but Logan still felt bad. "Don't be dumb." He caught the teleporter under one arm and gave his indigo hair a thorough scrubbing with his knuckles. "I ain't leaving nobody. I just have work to do here for a couple years." 

'Work' in the form of Lance Alvers appeared at his unoccupied shoulder, looking in dismay at the younger X-Men gamboling over the scrubby lawn. "Are we being attacked?" he asked warily, his tone more tired resignation than adrenal alarm. The scent of cheap beer was faint but unmistakable on his breath, and Logan shot a shrewd look his way. 

"Have you been drinking?" he asked, too quiet for anyone but him and Todd to hear, and the Avalanche blanched, looking guilty and then mystified. 

"How did you-" 

They'd have to have this discussion later. Hank approached him. Lance stiffened, so Logan leaned back to press a reassuring shoulder against his. "They come in peace," he murmured, quoting the action movie they'd caught on television the night before. 

"Hey! It's _Alvers!"_ exclaimed Sam, leaning past Logan as though he were a bouncer keeping him from a celebrity. "Hi, Alvers! Remember me?!!" 

"Um." Lance blinked, expression conveying he worried he might be talking to someone who'd lost his marbles. "Yes?" 

Sam turned to Jubilee. _"He remembers us!"_ he squealed in a breathy whisper, hands balled under his chin. "When we stole the jet- _I mean-"_ here he frantically backpedalled, meeting Logan's glare. "When we. Didn't. Do that."

Logan snorted, and crouched when Todd shifted like he wanted to climb down. 

"Can I see your room?" Sam's eyes were actually sparkling when he spoke to Lance. "Is it cool? I-" 

"Sam, leave the poor Avalanche alone." There was a twinkle in Hank's eyes behind his wire-frame glasses. "We're supposed to be training." 

At Logan's raised eyebrow he explained, "Charles told me to pass along the message that as long as you're on the payroll, your duties still apply. If you can't come to the school to train your students, they will come to you." 

This fell oddly into Logan's thoughts, a similar sensation to swallowing a too-sharp chip and feeling it scrape on the way down. Charles was rarely angry with him, but his expression had gone frosty when Logan finally explained the full situation to his friend-slash-boss. His tone had remained civil, but Logan knew: this wasn't a decision the other man approved of. 

"Okay," he agreed. His tone must have been a little off, because Todd looked up from where he'd been roughhousing with Kurt and met his eyes. The kid was pretty perceptive. He noticed little things like that. He didn't bother forcing a smile like he would have with the other boys; Todd would have seen right through it. "Go get your brothers, Hoppalong Cassidy. And get some more hand-warmers; you're shivering." 

Todd stood and raced inside to fetch Fred and Pietro, followed closely by Kurt, who clearly was also curious about the inside of the house. Sam watched them enviously.

This wasn't the X-Mansion; there was no pricey training equipment and spacious rooms to practice in. The best he could offer was a nearby semi-private park. They wouldn't be able to do anything too explosive or dangerous out here in fear that some overlooked human child might get caught in the blast. He'd have to come up with a better solution if this was to be a regular thing. 

"No powers," he dictated as the group collectively walked down the block. "This is just sparring practice today." 

The X-kids groaned, aware that a physical sparring session lead by Logan was often more draining and brutal than one where they could use their powers. The Brotherhood exchanged puzzled glances. He wondered if Mystique ever offered them any kind of training, then remembered how often and how badly they lost in fights. Probably not much training, then. Pietro was scowling like he'd rather be anywhere else, but Logan wasn't fooled. He, too, was curious as to whatever was about to happen. 

They walked past the empty playground equipment and onto the frosty soccer field, and Logan spaced out the kids, assigning deliberately mismatched partners. Jamie glanced fearfully at Fred, who towered over them all. Logan had to repress a smile at that. While Fred was by far the largest person he'd ever met, he was also one of the most gentle. 

He lead the group in stretches and warm-ups. The X-Kids, familiar with this routine, did so without comment. The Brotherhood looked self conscious and uncomfortable, but shockingly even Pietro did as instructed with minimal eye-rolling. 

After warm ups, he (with his "helpful assistant" Hank) demonstrated basic sparring tactics and had the kids follow suit. They did so, and he was again surprised to see everyone complying. This was going too well. Then- 

_"Owww,"_ Jubilee whined from the back. Logan's gaze shot to where Lance had her by the forearm, squeezing her tightly; his arm was so high above his own head that she was forced to stand on the very tips of her toes lest her arm be wrenched out of socket. Her face was scrunched in actual pain and fear, and his free hand was cocked back to deliver a strike. "Alvers, stop-!" 

"Alvers!" Logan barked, and the blank expression on Lance's face gradually resolved to his normal look. 

"Oh," he stuttered, eyes widening, and released her. She backed away, watching him warily. "Oh, shit- I'm. I didn't- she swung at my face, and I just-" 

Logan understood his mistake immediately. To the X-kids, sparring was exercise. To kids who had likely been physically abused, maybe it wasn't so impartial as all that. It'd obviously triggered a dissociative, defensive response. 

Lance was floundering now, turning a beseeching look on Jubilee. "Did I hurt you?" he asked nervously. "I really didn't mean-" 

"Don't bother, you creep." she glared at him, holding her sore arm to her chest and backing into Sam's protective hold. The hero-worship in the Cannonball's eyes had been replaced with something uncomfortably wary. 

Logan had to regain control, and quickly. "Who wants to learn how to break out of a hold like that?" he asked.

It wasn't his best training class. In fact, it was one of his all-time worst. Even ignoring the coldness, the rapidly setting sun, and the unfamiliarity between his students, he couldn't recapture their attention very well after that. The sense of defeat was a miasma infecting them all. 

By the time they walked back to Hank's car, group morale had sunk pretty low. Logan hung back to speak with Hank a moment. 

"That sucked." 

"You need to speak with Alvers." 

"I know. Try to do damage control with Jubes, okay?" 

Hank nodded. Then, before they could catch up with the kids, Logan stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Can you do me a favor, Bigfoot?" 

Hank nodded, waiting for him to expound. It was a little difficult to put into words. "Maximoff said something interesting the other night. Something about his old man. Was he raised with other kids? Was Magneto doing his weird-ass experiments on others?" 

Hank frowned. "I don't know." There was something in his voice- not the sound of a lie, really, just a partial truth. Knowing Logan could sense this, he clarified, "I have my suspicions, but no facts I'm ready to state yet. I can look into this, though. Is it urgent?" 

"No. Take your time. I know you're busy." 

Hank offered him a quick smile, pressed his larger body against Logan's in a partial side-hug; and then it was Logan's turn to smile. No matter how low his mood had sunk, Hank's presence always helped to raise his spirits a little. 

"Save some chamomile for me," he said, and peeked slyly at Hank from the corner of one eye. Hank snorted at this familiar jibing. 

"Go away. I know it's your joie de vivre to aggravate me by wearing short-sleeves in this weather, but your boys wouldn't heal so easily from frostbite. Try to set an example." 

The boys in question had already filed inside the house without Logan, but Logan took the friendly dismissal as was intended, throwing a carefree and cheeky salute to the departing Ford Squire before shutting the door behind himself. The front room was quiet and still, so he steeled himself and headed up the stairs, the floor vents warming his calves, the faint scent of cinnamon from Freddie's incredible dessert pumped through the house on the back of the heat waves. 

"I wouldn't," Pietro advised when he passed his bedroom and made for the door on the right, sitting cross-legged on his neat bed with a textbook open before him. "If you try to talk to him when he's in that mood, the whole house might crash down." 

"Noted." Logan continued on anyway, and rapped on Lance's door with his knuckles. "Alvers, can I come in?" 

Lance made a noise that was neither a yes nor a no, so Logan pushed the door open. 

The teen was laying wrong-side on his bed, back to the door. He'd shucked off his shirt and shoes and flung them into the pile of clothes that made up most of the floor. 

"Door open or closed?" Logan asked. He'd normally have just closed it, but it had now fully dawned on him that these kids- all of them- were trauma survivors. He knew nothing of what they'd been through. 

Lance made the same uncaring noise again, so Logan left the door open a crack, picked his way around the pile of clothes, and stood at the bed. "Can I sit?" 

In response, Lance moved his knees closer to his chest so there was space by the headboard for Logan. He sat, noting dimly that under the scent of Lance and the fainter but still notable trace of Pietro on the sheets, that same cheap beer scent clung faintly to the fabric. 

"Are you gonna yell at me?" 

"No." He waited a moment, gathering his thoughts, then said: "I screwed up. I owe you an apology." 

This was evidentially not what Lance had expected to hear. He opened his eyes, frowned at the wall. "What?" 

"I didn't consider whether you four would be okay just being tossed into a play-fight like that. I should have thought of it and asked you. It's my job to think of these things; I didn't; it got out of hand, and I'm sorry." 

Lance said nothing, but it was clear he was listening attentively. 

Logan waited a moment, too. There was no need to fill every moment with chatter. Then he reached under the neck of his own shirt, grabbed the chain he always wore there, and pulled it free, dropping it on the mattress beside Lance's hand. Lance reached for it cautiously. "Dog tags? Were you in the service?" 

"Yeah. Eight years, honorably discharged. I've been in open combat. I've... seen some good men die. I lost friends." 

Never mind that this was all half a century ago. Some days, especially after he'd just woken, it still felt fresh. 

"Jesus," Lance muttered, tracing the bumpy letters on the tag that read _Howlett._

"Sometimes loud noises still get to me," Logan admitted. "About a decade back, on New Years, I lost it at the fireworks display. An old buddy of mine put his hand on me and I-" it hurt to say this. The guilt was still boiling hot inside him. "I stuck a claw all the way through his shoulder and out the other side." 

Lance flinched, imagining it. Logan was, too. The cut-off grunt of pain the man had made. How he'd clutched his freely-bleeding shoulder and looked at Logan with eyes wide in alarm and, yes, fear. 

"He was my friend, right there, and I didn't see him at all," said Logan. "We're mutants, Alvers. When we lose control, it's different than when normal humans lose it. I had to learn to cope, or else it could happen again." 

Lance digested this a while. When he shifted, light fell on his back differently. There was a long line between his shoulders that could have been an old scar, or just the shadow of his spine. "How did you do it?" he asked. 

Logan chuckled. "A lot of help. A lot of patience from friends. A lot of work and mistakes and then more work. Therapy." _Charles digging around in his head, quieting some things that screamed too loud._ "Drinking won't help you. I know it feels like it does- _trust_ me, I know- but at your age, it could get you arrested. It could get you taken away. And it definitely will fuck with your head. How kind do you think the human law will be towards underage mutant drinking?" 

It turned Logan's stomach imagining it; all it would take was one hysterical human screaming about mutants being out of control and about to destroy the world, and the witch-hunts of old would begin anew. 

After a while, Lance sat up, turning so he could face Logan. "I don't," he fidgeted with the chain on the tags. "I don't wanna be that guy who drinks and then beats on smaller people." 

He clearly knew someone, maybe several someones, who fit that description. 

"You weren't buzzed enough for your judgment to be that impaired, kid. We both know it's something else that had you reacting like that." 

When Lance's back stiffened, Logan held up a palm. "I'm not asking what it is. You don't gotta describe the shape of your monsters to me unless you want to. Let's try this: do you trust me to never harm you?" 

Lance nodded slowly. 

"Then train with me. We'll work on your control. I'll see if I can help. I ain't a professional in mental health, but you know who is? Hank. He's better equipped to find someone to help you with that side of things. You're not a bad kid, Alvers." He squeezed Lance's ankle once, then stood. "And set your alarm; your appointment is at ten tomorrow." 

He was at the door again when Lance stopped him. "Don't you want your tags back?" he asked, holding them out. 

"Why don't you hold on to 'em for me for a while?" Logan suggested, then made for his own room. As was custom now, he barked his goodnight parting: "G'night, boys. See you in the morning. Don't do drugs. Don't blow anything up. Don't commit any felonies, and don't call me for bail if you do."


	6. Hypothesis

He wished, not for the first time, that he'd brought along one of those newfangled devices the Hedgehog carries with him, the ones that went around your head and pressed soft pads to the ears, hooked by wire into a bulky plastic box that blasted music into one's skull. Evan had pretty awful taste in music, but even that would be preferable to the droning, electrical whirrs that he could hear deep inside the dental office. 

He supposed he could, theoretically, just wait inside the truck. But there was no way in hell _that_ was happening, not with The Smell that permeated the air like a fog. 

So he lit up his third cigarette that afternoon since he'd picked Alvers up from school and slumped against the rough brick exterior of the surgeons office, feeling the smoke sear his lungs before he gradually let out a smoky breath. 

"I didn't know you smoked," a silvery, hair gel-scented blur materializing at Logan's side commented in a lazy, drawling voice. Logan opened his eyes and turned to the side to blow out dual lungfulls of smoke away from Pietro. The teen had presumably raced here immediately after driving Fred and Todd home from school.

"I don't, usually," he confessed. And when he did he generally preferred a single, nice cigar to this cheap filth. "But I can't stand the _smell-"_

"The dentist smell? Kind of minty, kind of antiseptic," Pietro agreed, leaning back against the wall in a mirror of Logan's slouched posture. Whether this was intentional or not, Logan couldn't tell. 

"That," he said. "And..." maybe if he was honest with Pietro now, the kid would eventually return the favor. "And the smell of Lance's blood. Half of me wants to go in there and raise hell because they're _hurting_ him and I'm out here letting it happen." He grimaced. "The other half of me knows that's stupid." 

"You can... smell his blood, specifically and separately from other people's." As usual, Pietro had such a good grasp on his own face that his expression betrayed nothing. "Would you be able to identify _my_ blood by scent?" 

"Yes." He took another drag on his cigarette. The noxious, tarry fumes kept all other scents at bay, and what was the harm? His lungs healed immediately between puffs, leaving his whole chest feeling a little itchy. "Everyone smells different based on diet and age and genetics and health and all that good stuff." 

"Huh. That explains some things. You must have an olfactory system the size of Jupiter." 

This conversation was perhaps the most pleasant and cordial he'd had with Quicksilver since his arrival at the boarding house. Ashing his cigarette into the sand-filled public ashtray with a tap of his index finger, he observed, "you changed your earring." 

Pietro touched the aforementioned stud through his earlobe; a plain metal base with a realistic fake diamond set into it. "The old one was getting gross. Usually I stick to plastic, for obvious reasons, but it was turning my ear green." 

_For obvious reasons..._ It took Logan a moment to process what was so 'obvious' about Pietro preferring plastic jewelry to metal, and then he felt a little sicker than cigarettes on an empty stomach should warrant. Magneto surely wouldn't manipulate metal threaded through his own son's flesh, would he? 

He knew the answer to that question, though, and it darkened his mood considerably. Hoping to get back on pleasantly informative ground he asked, "How was school?" 

Pietro shrugged, made a face. "Guidance counselor thinks I should take an 'artistic extracurricular,'" he rolled his eyes, the air quotes audible in his voice. "Apparently it would help 'put me on the college path,' along with all the basketball." 

"College path, huh?" Logan shouldn't have been surprised. Pietro was a junior, and his grade point average was through the roof. He wondered what the other boys planned to do after high school, if there was even a plan at all. "Any artistic extracurricular catch your eye?" 

Feeling moderately cheered as he finished the cigarette and listened attentively to Pietro's fast-paced babble about the pros and cons of stagecrew versus interpretive dance, he straightened, brushing his clothes off. It was a miserable, drizzly, chilly day. The sky was a solid white, without hint of blue or sun in sight. The first snowfall would be any day now; he could smell it. The roads and pavement were already slippery with ice in the early morning hours that melted by mid-afternoon sunlight. 

Having Pietro there was calming him. Perhaps it was just the visual reassurance that only one, not all, of his charges were currently bleeding profusely from the gums. But as the wind changed, his relaxed demeanor tensed once more when a familiar scent met his nostrils. 

"Get back!" he snarled, throwing Pietro against the wall with one arm, drawing both sets of claws, and stepping protectively in front of him just as a brightly grinning Sabertooth dropped from the building's awning and strolled leisurely towards them. 

"Well, well, Wolvie," his rival grinned, revealing four large, canid fangs. "I was wondering when you'd notice me. You getting too old to know when you're being followed?" 

Not too old. He hadn't aged since he'd first come into awareness of his own existence in the lab some eighty years prior, as Sabertooth was well aware. No; certainly not too old. Too _distracted._

Dimly, he observed Pietro pushing ineffectively at his back. Perhaps he was hurting him, crushing him against the rocky wall like that, but still he didn't, could not move- Sabertooth, a predator, had cornered them in a narrow, windowless alley between the dental surgery office and a chiropractor's office, and his entire focus was on keeping one away from the other. 

_Technically speaking,_ his own internal voice of logic that sounded disconcertingly similar to Charles' reminded him, _Pietro might be safer if you released him._

If Sabertooth managed- not for the first time- to stab clean through Logan, he could certainly harm the boy. Pietro's best shot was to run for it. But could he trust him to run on his order alone? Pietro was too belligerent and unpredictable to really be reliable in a touchy situation. 

"What do you _want,_ Victor?" an annoyed Pietro asked, and Logan was temporarily shocked into stillness- long enough for the teen to wriggle out from under his arm and stride fearlessly towards the hulking, muscular figure. Unpredictable, indeed. 

Sabertooth's grin broadened. "Why, only to see _you,_ little sprog." He looked positively delighted. "Lower the hostility. This is just a social call. The boss-man wanted me to check up on his silver boy and his little witchy girl." 

Pietro's back stiffened; the scent of his nervousness abruptly fanned through the alley. Sabertooth breathed it in deeply as though enjoying a heady bouquet as he regarded the both of them, looking Logan up and down. "Not sure what your father will think of the company you keep," he remarked. 

"If my father wants to speak with me, he can call me himself." Pietro replied stiffly. "And as for... other matters-" he spared Logan a single, anxious glance, then leaned in to hiss, "if you touch her, I will kill you myself." 

Logan knew he wasn't meant to hear it. Had he human ears, he wouldn't have. As it was... _Her?_ Who was this little witchy girl? 

He didn't focus much on that, though, not when more pressing matters were at hand. He was more conscious of the fact that he didn't like Pietro standing in range of Sabertooth's claws. Stepping towards them, he wrapped an arm around the boy's shoulders, scowling at the taller man before them. 

"You need to leave," he said firmly. "And you and your 'boss-man' need to stay the hell away from my kids." 

"Mr. Howlett?" an unfamiliar, female voice called, making them all jump. Peering down the alley was a nurse in blue scrubs, clutching a clipboard to her chest. She was squinting, even behind her thick glasses, and he hoped she was too nearsighted to see exactly what they were doing in the shadows. "Mr. Howlett, Mr. Alvers is awake now and ready to be discharged." 

Pietro pushed Logan's arm back. "Put those away," he hissed, glaring at Logan's still-exposed claws, and strode to the nurse with a bright smile, talking animatedly and, more importantly, _distractingly._ Kid was a good charmer, when it suited him. 

"I meant what I said, Creed," Logan told Sabertooth, who was grinning like this whole show was the height of entertainment. "Stay away." 

"Funny, isn't it?" Sabertooth said slyly, already slinking off in the opposite direction. "The man with metal bones claiming the metal master's son as his own, like you really think you can protect him. I wonder how this will turn out?" 

He was gone by the time Logan reached the double-doors that lead to the front office, where a young male nurse stood behind Lance's wheelchair. The Avalanche was grinning dopily at Pietro through a mouth full of bloody cotton.

Upon seeing Logan, he said, quiet and muffled, "They took my _teef_ out." He seemed rather put out at the prospect. Unsure how good his control was while drugged, and not wanting any suspicious earthquakes to alarm the nurses, Logan clapped a hand on his shoulder, signed the release consent form, and took the prescription for painkillers. Lance smelled wrong- the anesthesia they'd pumped into him was awful, worse even than the still strong blood-smell. 

"They were meant to, bub," he said distractedly. "Sorta the whole point." 

Lance's eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "But how will I ever eat _steak_ again?! And my tongue will be lonely..." The cotton wads in his mouth made it sound more like 'shteak'. 

"Oh, my god," Pietro muttered quietly, amazed and aghast at the same time. "I forgot that he gets like this. One time Todd brought home a joint and-" He seemed to realize he wasn't supposed to admit this in front of multiple adults, faltered a little, then squared his shoulders and continued despite Logan's _look,_ "- and Todd said he never wanted to get high with us again. We were too weird." 

The male nurse, who didn't look to be much older than Lance himself, said he was required to push Lance's wheelchair all the way to the truck, so they rode in the elevator together into the parking garage. Lance, his steak woes temporarily forgotten, resumed gazing, love-struck, at Pietro's face. 

"You're sho _pretty,"_ he sighed dreamily. "And funny. And shmart. You're like a- a- an angel." He tried to rest his chin on his fist and missed entirely, overbalancing and nearly falling out of the chair until the nurse, used to drugged teens, rolled his eyes and hauled him back. 

Logan coughed to hide his bark of laughter, turning his head away because he couldn't help the shit-eating grin that crossed his face. 

"Ishn't he pretty?" Lance turned to ask the nurse. 

"Sure, kid." 

Logan risked a glance at Pietro's face; he'd gone very red and was glaring at the elevator doors like he wished to be anywhere else, but all the same his lips twitched, fighting a smile. And when Lance reached for his hand, he allowed him to take it. 

They were parked on an upper level of the garage, so the nurse pushed just shy of two hundred pounds of Lance's wheelchair uphill, straining miserably with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Finally, Logan stopped him. "Let me," he sighed, and scooped Lance out of the chair with ease. Charles, who fiercely guarded his independence, would have verbally ripped him a new one for trying such a thing, but Lance looked delighted. 

"Aww, dad," he grinned, getting comfortable against his shoulder, and Logan stilled, surprised at the tide of warmth filling his chest at the word. This was stupid. Lance was drugged to the gills; for all they knew, he was seeing purple manatees and pink elephants swimming around the sedans and SUVs of the dingy cement parking garage. He probably thought he was addressing the king of lobsters as his paternal authority figure. 

All the same, though. 

It was Pietro's turn to give Logan a wary glance that Logan opted to ignore. If he felt like being nasty about this, he could easily remind him of certain covert elevator hand-holding. 

If the nurse was surprised to see a significantly shorter man easily carry a six-foot-three teen uphill, he said nothing, seeming grateful to keep pushing the now-empty wheelchair all the way to the truck, then helpfully got the back door for Logan. 

Pietro unexpectedly claimed the back seat as well, making a face but not protesting as Lance immediately cuddled up to him. Logan thanked the nurse, then slid into the drivers' seat, turning the key in the ignition and hearing the loud engine crank over. A peek in the rearview mirror showed that, while Pietro was staring definitively out the window, he'd once more laced his fingers through Lance's. 

_Family._ The thought came unbidden, and he closed his eyes tightly. Thinking like that was a mistake. He had a relationship of convenience with the boys. He couldn't keep them, not really, not forever anyway, and hoping to do so was a surefire way to get his damn fool heart hurt.

"Fast food sound okay?" he asked, when he had better control over his voice. Lance responded with confused enthusiasm; Pietro shrugged. 

It was rush hour, a long and quiet drive where they seemed to catch mostly red lights. Lance babbled on about this and that with only monosyllabic responses from Pietro to encourage him, until finally he settled into a light doze with his head on the other boy's chest. Logan ordered enough food for the five of them at a drive-thru window, then went ahead into a nearby pharmacy to place Lance's prescription, as well. 

"For your son?" the pharmacist asked, looking at the paperwork and Logan's insurance card. 

"I-" Logan floundered. His first experiences in the world had been during a time of prominent nuclear families; when divorce was near-unheard of and even words like 'pregnancy' were spoken in whispers, as though it were a shameful concept. Back then, nobody would have considered that Lance, with his different last name and distinct Mediterranean looks, could possibly be Logan's son. 

Not that it mattered: the limited constraints of a nuclear family were as oppressive as they were dated. "My foster-son," he clarified, when she peeked at him over the edge of her glasses. 

"Ah," she nodded, friendly enough. "Yep, my niece just had her wisdom teeth popped out, too. They reach that age and suddenly everything starts changing." 

He waited for her to fill the prescription, then paid the co-pay for the rattling brown bottle of pills. By the time he returned to the truck that now smelled of fast food grease and salt, Lance had gone from a light doze to an all-out slumber, and Pietro wasted no time speaking up. 

"Don't ever come between me and my father's people again. They can and will kill you." 

Logan arched an eyebrow as he pulled from the parking lot and back onto the road. Rush hour had faded somewhat, but traffic was still bad, and the rain had gone from a drizzle to a steady downpour. He switched the windshield wipers on. 

"Couple things," he said. "That was Sabertooth. He and I go back longer than you've even been alive. He's just a low-level thug; he always has been, he always will be. Secondly, I don't think you have to worry about my dying on you. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not exactly fragile. I appreciate the concern, though." 

He'd survived explosions, point-blank gunshots to the head, and having multiple major organs ripped out by vengeful hands; not to mention the more common perils of illness and old age. As far as he was aware, death would forever remain a stranger to him. 

"And thirdly-" he turned at the red light to look directly into Pietro's narrowed eyes. "I refuse to make that promise. If something comes for you, even if it's your father himself, I _will_ protect you. You can be as mad about it as you want, but that's my job. I am your guardian: I guard you, even from your own stubbornness." 

Pietro's scowl darkened. "Then you're an idiot," he declared, and would say nothing more for the rest of the drive home. 

Lance woke at the familiar turn back into their neighborhood, and managed to carry himself into the house on his own two legs. The pain medication and anesthesia was beginning to wear off; he was more grumbly than loopy. 

This grumpiness was not alleviated when, clinging to the wall on three limbs, Todd shoved a video camera in his face. "Smile for the press!" he said excitedly, layering his own accent so thick that it became a parody of itself. "Let the public see those pearly whites. Tell us how it went, young Avalanche." 

"Cut it out," Pietro snapped, and Todd's attention was drawn by the two full bags of food in his hands. 

"Dinner?" he asked excitedly, camera forgotten, and then he was scuttling along the wall in the direction of Fred's room, luring him out with promises of burgers and fries.

Pietro, still clearly peeved at Logan for ignoring his warnings earlier, bolted down his dinner and sulked off to his room. 

Lance lasted all of five minutes at the dinner table, sipping occasionally at a bottle of Gatorade to wash down his meds, before falling face-first onto a pile of napkins and beginning to snore. Logan and Fred had a brief but intense bout of rock-paper-scissors to decide who had to carry him to bed and, grinning at his victory, the professor watched the teenager scoop his friend over his shoulder. 

"How are you doing, then, Prince Frederick?" Logan asked, biting into his second burger. "What's on your mind these days?" 

Todd, having long since given up on trying to understand Logan's weird and ever-changing repertoire of nicknames, shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Nothin'." He considered. Logan noticed ugly, fingerprint-shaped bruises circling his left forearm and frowned. _That_ hadn't been there during training that morning. Perceptive Todd picked up on it immediately. 

"Just some punks at school," he grinned like it didn't bother him. "Don't worry, I took care of it. Hey, Nightcreepster- I mean Kurt- asked if I could come over and chill this weekend. Only-" he glanced around, then leaned in to explain, "He don't want me saying it in front of Lance or Freddie, since Jubilee and Jean still ain't cool with them and all." 

He was blatantly changing the subject. Logan had a hard time tearing his eyes away from the circlet of purple-blue bruises- they were huge prints; whatever kid had grabbed him was definitely not playing fair. He recalled the way Lance had grabbed Jubilee... but no, surely he wouldn't... 

"So can I?" Todd was saying. "I mean. He says there's a theater room at the mansion, yo; I want in on that action!" 

Todd was really asking permission for something. Would wonders never cease? He, in his quiet and subtle way, had been most resistant to any kind of order being imposed on him. He'd practically raised himself and was remarkably independent in nature. There _was_ a movie theater in the basement of the mansion, and it was indeed impressive. Logan had no doubt Todd would love it. Still- 

"Did Charles say it was alright?" he asked, and Todd coughed a little. 

"Not... exactly..." at Logan's shrewd expression, he leveled, "Okay, we weren't exactly gonna ask him. You know what he's like- he hates us!"

Logan was about to argue that that was ridiculous- Charles didn't _hate_ any kids- then stopped to reconsider. The way he treated the Brotherhood boys was... 'unfair' was putting it lightly. It wasn't that he treated them so differently than he treated the X-kids, but that was sort of the problem. He expected all kids, regardless of background, to behave orderly and rationally, like miniature adults. _Soldiers._ And when the kids in question had experienced real trauma... 

Well. This method worked for some kids, like lonely, eager-to-please Scott. Clearly not so much for most survivor kids, though. Charles would want to keep Kurt away from Todd's influence, but Logan could have told him why that was an awful idea. The best way to ensure a teen relationship was to forbid them access to one another; had he learned nothing from Romeo and Juliet? A friendship between Kurt and Todd seemed harmless enough, anyway. 

"I'll talk to him, okay?" he said after a moment. "I'll work it out. Might not be right away though- just invite Kurt over this weekend." 

Todd thought it over, then shrugged. "Okay... but you'll really talk to Professor X?" 

Logan nodded, then turned to face Fred when he re-descended the stairs, Lance deposited safely in his room. Fred looked... off. Distanced, maybe. Distracted. "Hey, bub," he greeted, and waited for Fred's focus to shift back to him. "I checked the TV guide; there's lots of good stuff playing tonight. It's your turn to pick." 

"Oh," Fred, who normally loved movies even more than Logan himself, said quietly. "That's cool." 

Something was _really_ off. "I can make popcorn and put chocolate chips in it...?" he offered leadingly, and felt some relief when this earned a small but warm smile. 

Todd balled up the paper trash and made to throw it away. As he passed Logan's chair, he picked up an unusual scent. That in itself wasn't particularly alarming- Todd always smelled strange; one day he was really going to have to buck up and ask him why he refused to shower- but he knew this scent. He'd smelled it on Jean every day for months before she finally dumped that little asshole... what was his name? 

_Duncan Matthews._ Suddenly, the savage bruising made a strange sort of sense. 

There was never a dull moment in this household.

* * *

It wasn't until much later, when all the popcorn had been eaten and Fred's pick of the night- that black and white version of Sherlock Holmes starring Buster Keaton- had long been finished and both boys retired to their rooms when Logan remembered to check the mail and recognized Keisha Morrow's handwriting on a large yellow folder alongside the mundane bills and junk mail. 

He poured the paperwork she'd sent him out onto the bed- patchy legal works regarding the kids' lives. A note from Lance's most recent foster family. Dental work identifing Todd's age by the shape and development of his teeth (as he'd been born to a homeless woman, there was no official record of his birth. His exact birthdate was unknown.) There was Pietro's arrest report and subsequent bail. Early homeschooling reports from when Fred was still a little first grader in a town with a population of two-fifty. 

Pietro's birth certificate looked different than any he'd seen before in both paper and formatting. It took him a moment to realize that it was a photocopy translated to English after the fact. 

Closer inspection revealed that the kid had been born in Poland. He held it up to the light, admiring the pretty lilac scroll on the thick paper. Catching sight of his mother's name, it dawned on him how invasive this was, and then he cringed imagining the boy's facial expression should he know Logan was looking at this. 

He moved to put all of the documentation back into the folder when something else caught his eye. Just beneath the words 'live birth' was another box- _single or multiple birth?_

_Multiple; Twin #2,_ read the document, hand-penned by some long ago midwife. 

Logan stared at that word for a long, long time, his mind slowly putting the pieces together. Oh. _Oh._

He suspected he now knew who the 'little witchy girl' was, and it stunned him into silence.


	7. Experiment Part I

Lance had felt wary since the phone call yesterday morning, and his uncertainty only grew when Logan began knocking on their bedroom doors and inspecting their clothes.

The older mutant nodded in approval when he saw that Lance was wearing his new jeans- the ones he hadn't worn holes into just yet- but frowned at the typical vest-over-grubby-t-shirt combo that accompanied it. 

"Didn't I just buy you a sweater?" Logan asked, glancing into Lance's closet. "You should wear that." 

Lance groaned. It wasn't the _worst-_ olive green and fairly comfortable- but he felt like such a square wearing it. It looked like something Scott Summers might own, so he hated it on principle. 

Logan offered him a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, I know. But trust me, you'll feel less out of place. It helps." He considered the teenager as he dug the sweater from where it was balled up in the back of the excavation dig that was his closet. "You smell okay. You'll be fine." 

"Gee, thanks." Glancing at his guardian from under his curtain of hair, Lance couldn't help the teasing smirk that crept over his face to accompany his sarcasm. Logan was such a dweeb sometimes. 

Logan chuffed. It sounded like a noise a horse might make. "We need to get you a haircut," was all he said, and he tossed a dirty sock in Lance's direction before leaving to boss the other boys around. 

( _"I'm Polish,"_ Pietro was complaining for the thousandth time the next room over. _"Why do_ I _have to go?!"_

_"Kid, I'm Canadian but I ain't saying no to dinner invitations,"_ was Logan's stock response: patience or stubbornness, Lance couldn't tell. _"Hank and Rahne are Scottish, Kurt's German, and Amara and Roberto are Brazilian. You ain't in the minority of non-Americans here."_ ) 

A pouting Pietro slipped into Lance's room a minute later, just as he was tucking the dog tags he wore all the time now under the neck of the hated sweater. He grinned as the other boy wrapped his arms around Lance from behind and rested his forehead between his shoulderblades. "Hey, you." 

"I don't _want_ to go to Xavier's stupid holiday party," Pietro complained. 

"So why don't you run?" Lance suggested. He'd half expected to wake up and find Pietro's room empty that morning. If he wanted to run away from something, nothing and nobody would be able to drag him back, save perhaps Magneto himself. "Come back after it's over?"

Pietro pressed his face so hard against Lance's spine that his next words were inaudible mumbles with a whiny edge to their tone. 

"I didn't catch that," laughed the older teenager. "Come on, it'll be fun. You can show Sunsplatt that you're prettier than he is; that's always fun for you. And... I need you to go." 

"Hm?" Pietro looked up at last. 

"I don't know anything about fancy dinners. Aren't I supposed to use like. Special forks and shit? Where does the napkin go? I need your help." 

"Hmm..." Pietro considered. "That's true. What will you give me if I help you?" 

"The... satisfaction of being smarter than everyone else and the ability to rub it in our faces?" 

This got a laugh out of Pietro. Lance loved his laugh- his real laugh; the one that burst out of him like he'd been surprised into releasing it; a loud and brash bark of sound. Before he could have a chance to feel embarrassed about this (though why Pietro always got embarrassed about things like that, Lance would never understand), Lance turned in his hold to look at him properly... and promptly forgot what he'd been about to say. 

"Wow," he whispered. Pietro wore a navy blue sweater, shot through with thin veins of silver thread that caught in the light, fitted nicely and V-necked enough to show off his delicate throat and collarbones. And his jeans- he was wearing _those damn jeans_ again. Lance was fairly sure his cause of death would one day be _those_ particular jeans- they certainly made his heart beat dangerously fast. "You... look nice." 

Pietro arched an eyebrow, his expression giving nothing away. "Huh, do I?" 

"Quit fishing for compliments." Lance tried to sound assertive, but his voice had gone a bit hoarse and croaky. Sometimes it seemed impossible that Pietro was interested in Lance at all, when he was so smart and confident and experienced and had that snarky, inappropriate sense of humor that Lance loved so much- and he looked the way he did. Lance liked him so much, sometimes, that it was a little scary. "You know you're beautiful." 

"Hm." Pietro attempted to look smug, but there it was- a flash of warmth in his ice-blue eyes. He liked that Lance thought he was beautiful, much as he feigned indifference to other people's opinions. He couldn't help but smile when Lance nuzzled his nose into his cheek, feeling for all the world like a cuddly puppy, like a boy in love. "Don't mess my hair up." 

A sharp knock on the door had them both flinging themselves in opposite directions, with Pietro actually disappearing and reappearing on top of Lance's nightstand. They'd come close to being caught by Logan several times, but luckily their guardian remained completely oblivious of their relationship.

"Would you two put your pants back on? The limo's here." 

They breathed in collective sighs of relief at Todd's voice on the other side of the door. Sometimes his joking hit a bit too close to home; Lance feared that he, too was close to figuring out there was more than friendship between the two eldest members of the Brotherhood.

"Limo?" Lance asked, when he could breathe again. He offered Pietro a hand to help him step off the nightstand, ignoring the water glasses and crumpled homework assignments cascading to join the mess on the floor as he did so. 

Pietro shrugged. 

The two of them were the last outside to see the white limousine idling at the snow-frosted curb for them, and they exchanged a glance. They were unable to see the rest of the Brotherhood through the black, tinted windows, but the driver- a paunchy, middle-aged human man- opened a door for them. Lance barely remembered to thank him before the door was closing again. 

"Hey, guys!" 

The familiar female voice made both boys jump. Pietro was the first to recover; he looked Tabitha up and down from where she was perched cheerfully at the keystone of the benchlike seats. She sat with her arm flung around Logan's neck and, though he didn't look particularly pleased with this invasion of his personal space, neither was he trying to push her away. 

To Logan's left was Fred, and then Todd, trying to hide behind the larger mutant's bulk as though Tabitha's mere presence alone would get him pranked and embarrassed should he let his guard down. Lance, who rather liked the rambunctious female mutant, slid by her free side. 

"Hey," he greeted, grinning at her. "It's been a while. I didn't know you were coming to the dinner." 

"Please. You'd be bored to death without me. Consider it preliminary life-saving measures." 

Lance's grin widened. "Well, that's good. You look nice." 

She did. Her unruly hair was sticking up like blonde exclamation points, bright as firecrackers. He'd never seen her in a dress before, but it was absolutely a Tabitha-style dress; all torn and mismatched fabric that was as magnificent as it was an eyesore. It was so short that it would have been indecent, had she not been wearing ripped leggings underneath and a leather biker jacket covered in patches over the top. Charles wouldn't approve. Lance loved it. 

"Yeah, yeah, keep your tongue in your mouth, lover-boy," Tabitha teased, playfully pushing him. "I'm taken, see?" 

She held her arm out. On a leather band around her wrist was a small metal plate bearing the word _Amara_ in flowery script. Lance arched his eyebrows. 

"Dang. How'd you get so lucky?!" 

They chatted casually, as though it'd only been days since they'd lived together, and not half a year. Lance was dimly aware of the long rental limousine leaving his neighborhood and entering a main road- much emptier than usual, due to the holiday. 

Todd, gradually overcoming how much Tabby intimidated him, began playing with the limo Charles had scheduled for them; rolling up and down the black window that divided the passengers from their driver and badgering him with inane questions before his attention was diverted to a chest of drawers containing iced bottles of champagne and clear crystal glasses. 

"Well today just got more interesting," he smirked, and reached for a bottle. Logan pulled it from his hand and put it back into the drawer, giving him a stern look. 

"Behave," he ordered in his rumbly, _and-I-mean-it_ voice. Todd pouted, but as usual his attention span was too short for any real sulking. In a minute he'd seized the car phone and called the "How Is My Driving" phone number printed across a decal sticker on the fleet vehicle driving in front of them. 

"Yo," he greeted the operator. "I want to report vehicle 810V9's driving. What's wrong? Nothing is _wrong,_ good sir. No; their driving is miraculous. It is beautiful. It is taking me to a higher plane of existence. I have transcended. The angels are singing and I-" 

Logan plucked the phone out of his hands and hung it up while everyone else in the limo snickered, including, surprisingly, the driver. "I've always wanted to do that," he confessed. 

Any further trouble was averted simply by their swift arrival to the Xavier mansion. "You kids have fun," the driver instructed, stepping outside to open their doors for them. "I'll be back to take you home around seven." 

He took Tabitha's hand as she slipped from her seat, as though she were a proper lady from the 1800's exiting a stagecoach rather than a teenage girl with an affinity for pyrotechnics and each of her stubby fingernails painted a different, chipping color. 

"Tabby!" A blur emerged from the double doors of the mansion and raced past the gargoyles and out through the open gates where the limo was parked, flinging herself into Tabitha's open arms. Tabby caught Amara and spun her, supporting her weight with arms folded under her thighs. "I _missed_ you!" 

"Missed you too, my little firestarter," Tabitha grinned. She let Amara's weight slip just a fraction in her arms so that she could reach her mouth and kiss her right then and there for anybody to see. 

Lance felt a pang of jealousy that she could be so open with the one she loved. He wondered what would happen if he dared so much as take Pietro's hand. Pietro would probably push him away and glare at him, then lecture him severely on the dangers of such stupidity the moment they were alone. _"If my father thought I actually cared about you..."_

He'd heard it a thousand times before, but Pietro had never really confirmed whether he actually _did_ care. 

The low headache that had been lying dormant at the base of his skull shifted a little, waking up, and he rubbed the back of his neck, hoping a migraine wasn't on its way. 

More X-Men had followed Amara to the doors- X-Men who didn't have families of their own to spend the holidays with, or their families were too far away to bother visiting. Rahne and Hank stood side-by-side, grinning cheekily and clad in what looked to him fancy formal Scottish dress. Lance knew what kilts were, but he wasn't so sure about the belt or jacket. They looked like they were having a good time, though. 

"Welcome, guests," Hank greeted them from the doorway, smiling brightly. Logan visibly perked up at the sight of his friend. 

"Hiya, Bigfoot. Nice legs." Logan's smile was very warm. Todd looked back and forth from Hank to Logan with a surprised, then amused, expression on his face. Before Lance could puzzle out what Todd meant by that look, Fred bumped him with his hip, causing him nearly to stumble into Amara. 

"Sorry," Fred muttered, from behind a towering stack of cake boxes. "Can't see." 

Lance held up his arms and took two boxes from the top of Fred's pile. "What all did you _make?!"_ he asked, laughing, then winced as the laughter jarred his headache. Freddie had been baking up a storm since dawn yesterday, when they'd first received the invitation. 

"Um..." Fred thought. "Pumpkin pie, sweet potato pie, pecan pie, cherry pie, apple pie, peach cobbler, cheese biscuits..." 

A figure materialized beside them with a pop and a swirl of dark blue mist. "Wow," said a heavily accented voice. "Fred's the real Thanksgiving hero." Kurt was wearing an obnoxious, enormous orange sweater featuring a cartoonish, walleyed turkey across his chest. Little blinking lights in its feathers flashed yellow and red at intervals. 

"Nightcreepster!" Todd cheered, and bowled Kurt over to mess with his hair and his fuzzy blue ears. "You turned your disguise-thingy off!" 

"Yeah, because I was afraid you'd break it again," Kurt grumped, but allowed Todd to manhandle him before straightening up, the small teen still slung over his shoulders. "You all can come in," he told the rest of the Brotherhood boys, carrying a giggling Todd to the doors. 

Amara slunk to the strangely quiet Pietro and tucked an arm around his waist. "Come on," she told him. "The cards on the table say you'll be sitting by me." She tugged him and Tabby to the doors, leaving Lance outside with Fred as even Logan had gone upstairs to bother Hank. 

"Are you okay?" the younger mutant peered down at Lance to ask. "You look funny." 

"Gee, thanks." Lance rubbed his itchy nose with the sleeve of his awful sweater. "No, I don't feel great. This sweater is too hot and I have a headache and I think this is going to be a disaster. We shouldn't have come." 

He was starting to sound like Pietro. 

Fred made a sympathetic noise and shifted his boxes to one arm so that he could wind his free arm around Lance's shoulders. "Come on," he urged. 

"I know you don't like it either." Lance just couldn't leave well enough alone. "After everything that happened last week? You _hate_ to see Kurt all over Todd." 

He shouldn't have brought that incident up. The whole confrontation between Jean and Duncan; how Todd had nearly gotten his ass handed to him when he had to step in for Fred's sake; the way Fred had stormed off jealously... It hadn't been a good week for any of them. 

"I'm trying not to think about that," Fred muttered and, feeling bad, Lance let it go. Maybe that's why he'd overdone it on the baking; he probably felt some guilt himself. This time, when Fred tried to pull Lance into the mansion, Lance let him. 

It was much as Lance remembered it, although now it was tastefully decorated with pumpkins gilded in gold and wreaths of autumn leaves. He snorted disdainfully at the sign above the dining room door that read, _'All Are Welcome Here!'_ in cheery curled script. As if. 

The others were seated in the lounge on comfortable chairs while an actual fire crackled in the hearth, talking amiably amongst themselves. Lance caught a glimpse of Scott out of the corner of his eye and instinctively avoided him (why wasn't old tight-ass himself at _Jean's_ family Thanksgiving, anyway?! Trouble in paradise?), coming to sit instead on the armrest of Logan's chair while Fred made to put his boxes in the kitchen. 

"- it'll be a little rough at first," Hank was telling his guardian. "But there's nothing the school board can do about it, now that those discriminatory employment bills have passed." 

"You sure it's gonna be safe, though?" Logan asked, with enough real concern to fully draw Lance's attention. "If some punks try to mess with you-" 

"Logan," Hank said, with a fond smile. "Do you really think high school students could harm _me?"_

"Not physically, no," Logan admitted begrudgingly, and Hank's paw absolutely dwarfed Logan's hand in comparison when he patted it consolingly. Lance couldn't tear his eyes away from the furry knees visible between the ends of his socks and the hem of his heavy-looking kilt. 

To distract himself, he reached into a dish on the coffee table and pulled out a handful of candied walnuts, though if he'd tried to eat them, he'd be using the water pic to blast crumbs out of the stitches in his gums for ages. He rolled them around on his palm instead. 

"Are you coming back to Bayville high?" he asked, recalling when a more human-looking Hank had taught him chemistry. 

"I am, Lance," Hank confirmed with good cheer. "And I'll be resuming my position as a coach, too. Principal Kelley wasn't too keen on the idea, but he's found that I'm not as easy to bully as most of his mutant targets, not when I've come prepared and knowing my rights." The glint in his eye as he smiled broadly made Lance smile, too. Hank was quite a pain in the ass when he wanted to be. 

"Speaking of which," the professor considered, and turned to where Pietro was chatting with Amara, Rogue, and Tabby, warming their backs to the fireplace. "Mr. Maximoff, I've been told you're searching for an artistic extracurricular?" 

When Pietro looked at him and nodded, Hank beamed. "I've gotten, ah, _permission,_ from Principal Kelley to run this semester's school play. How would you like to audition for _'A Midsummer Night's Dream'?"_

Lance wasn't familiar with theater, but he knew the Beast had a penchant for Shakespeare. The thought of Pietro acting onstage in a big costume and speaking that old-timey language sounded kind of fun. 

"I-" Pietro looked a little taken aback, and considered the suggestion. "I suppose I could audition..." 

"Splendid!" 

Lance held back a shriek of alarm when Kurt, clinging tightly to Todd, teleported into the room and a dizzy Todd stumbled into his lap, laughing his fool head off and sending the candied walnuts in Lance's hand flying in all directions. 

"Laaaaance!" he giggled, looking up upside-down at his housemate from where he was slung across his legs. He reached up and tugged the ends of Lance's long hair. "Lance, you gotta see the theater, dude! It's _huge!"_

They were interrupted by the exuding presence of one Charles Xavier, finely dressed as always, rolling his wheelchair into the lounge and clearing his throat. Though he did so softly, the room immediately quieted to hear him speak. "Students and guests," he greeted formally. "Our holiday meal is ready, if you'll follow me to the dining room." 

* * *

Charles had set Logan's table placard opposite the table from himself, so that they were both sitting on the ends of the long, rectangular space. Surrounding Charles like body guards were Hank in Logan's typical seat and- surprisingly- Scott. He supposed Ororo was busy with her and the Hedgehog's family, but hoped Charles hadn't told Scott not to spend the holiday with his girlfriend because of it. 

On Logan's end of the table, he was flanked by Lance and Fred- no doubt Charles wanted to keep the Brotherhood's most dangerous under a watchful eye. Tabby was within reaching distance, as well. 

The table was devoid of food but made up beautifully in fine china with rows of silverwear artfully arranged by each of the fourteen settings. When Charles rang a bell by his plate, the catering service exited the kitchen, pushing treys laden with dishware, and began pouring the first course of butternut squash soup, along with Fred's flaky cheese biscuits. 

Lance stared, eyes boggling, as a young man in uniform spooned soup into his dish, and Logan sighed. No doubt they thought this showy exhibition of wealth was absolutely ridiculous- and would they be wrong? Charles was obviously trying to prove _something._

When the Avalanche reached for a spoon, he clumsily knocked it from the table and it landed on the polished wood floor with a clatter. His face seared crimson as he ducked to fetch it. 

"Wow, Alvers," Scott scoffed from the opposite end of the table, then, _"Hey!"_ as a tiny seismic quake caused the ice-water to slosh in their glasses and the chandelier overhead swayed. 

"Whoops, my bad," said Amara, though the quake had clearly not come from her. Logan shot her a grateful glance and scooted his chair closer to Lance so that he could press his shoulder comfortingly against the boy's, and noticed that Pietro had taken his hand underneath the table. Lance seemed to calm after that. 

The mini-quake was soon forgotten as everyone ate their soup and began talking- nervously, at first, but soon it all smoothed out. By the time the second course- salads- arrived, all four Brotherhood boys looked a little calmer. (Tabby, at ease in any situation no matter how hostile her surroundings, looked unruffled.) 

Logan allowed himself to be drawn in a conversation with his students about training regimens, and seized the opportunity to say, "Charles, I was thinking- wouldn't it make more sense if _I_ came _here_ for training? And brought the boys with me? It makes no sense to train without all the proper equipment." 

Charles froze, a fork of greens halfway to his mouth, before he slowly set it back down on his plate. "You want the Brotherhood boys to train in my mansion?" he asked, voice low and smooth. 

Logan refused to be cowed. "Yes, a few times a week should cover it. Aren't you always talking about how we should learn to work together? What better way than proper training together?" 

Todd fidgeted uneasily in his seat, so Kurt threw an arm around his shoulder. "I think it's a good idea, professor!" the German mutant piped brightly. "We are allies, not enemies, as you always say." 

Kurt wasn't wearing his disguise, and that was surprise enough. He'd gotten so dependent on the thing that he often refused to leave his bedroom without it, even when it was just other mutants, mutants who knew and loved him, in the vicinity. Logan wondered if Todd had asked him not to wear it, and then thought back to an interview he'd once heard Hank conduct on a radio show about human-passing privilege among mutants and what it meant to be visibly mutated. 

Maybe a friendship between Todd and Kurt was not only a favorable thing, but a genuinely beneficial development to both households.

"I-" Charles opened, then shut his mouth, clearly wanting to argue but finding no favorable angle to do so at. He glanced at Scott, who took his cue. 

"Is training with you a good idea?" he asked icily, his eyes cutting into Lance behind his goggles. "I remember someone who refused to take orders, compromised missions, and, what was that last part? Tried to physically attack Jubilee." 

Lance went chalky-white, his hand clenching his fork so hard that it shook. His jaw clamped shut on his own argument, and he merely stared Summers down. 

God bless Hank. He reached across the table and took Scott's hand, squeezing it. "That's been addressed," he said softly. "Jubilee herself says she understands what happened and she'd be willing to work with Mr. Alvers again, provided it does not happen again." 

This apparently surprised Lance. "She did?" he asked, head cocked. He looked relieved; this was something that had been weighing on his mind for weeks. 

"Sure," Roberto spoke up from the middle of the table. "We've all taken it too far before. Remember when I almost crisped the Toad at our last fight?" He smiled apologetically at Todd, who shrugged it off in a _no-harm-done_ gesture. 

"So you see," Hank turned to his boss. "Our _job_ is teaching teenage mutants self discipline as they learn how to navigate this world burdened with unique gifts. We shouldn't be turning away mutants that need our help." 

Charles looked as though someone had poured lemon juice onto his tongue. Pietro's smile had turned sardonic as he silently watched the proceedings, knowing exactly how much Professor Xavier hated to be backed into a corner. 

"I suppose something of the sort could be arranged," Charles finally agreed. Scott stared at him, but Hank was still squeezing his hand, so he didn't argue. Kurt fist-pumped and hissed a quiet, _"Yes!"_

Logan glanced at Tabby, considering. Would she, also, be willing to come to training? 

Catching his look, she held up both palms in a _whoa, there,_ gesture. "Hey," she said. "Don't look at me, Badger. I don't have a horse in this race. I'm just here for the food and the view." She winked at Amara, and Logan grunted. Hopefully someday she'd come back to them. 

The main course- an enormous, slow-roasted turkey; bowls of cranberries that glittered like jewels; yellow-orange spears of carrots drenched in butter and dill; scalloped potatoes baked to a crisp; and various other sundries- arrived at last. Even Fred's eyes had grown huge at the sight of such a spread for only fourteen people. Lance watched the caterer refill his glass with foamy sparkling cider, his eyes dull and his complexion still pallid. 

"You okay?" Logan made a pretext of reaching for the salt shaker to mutter into his ear. Lance shook his head, hair falling into his eyes. 

"Alright." Logan considered. "My room's the second to the right on the next floor. You can go rest up if you need." 

Looking grateful, Lance excused himself, muttering something about the bathroom, before departing the table. Pietro fixed a steady look at Logan, but if he was trying to communicate something, his guardian couldn't read it. 

To his surprise, he found that Charles was looking between he and Pietro as well, brow furrowed. "You five seem close," he observed, spreading honey over a biscuit. 

"Do we?" Logan couldn't help but feel pleased by this. Half the time, he felt like they were all ganging up against him. 

"Yes. You have an... aura about you." 

This evidentally upset Scott so much that he surged to his feet and walked towards the kitchen without so much as excusing himself. Hank followed his movements, then jerked his head at Logan, his intentions clear: _follow him._

Logan had never been good at ignoring an order from Hank. He stood and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a seating chart for the dinner that can be viewed [ here ](http://mugsandpugs1.tumblr.com/post/165824705277/seating-chart-for-the-thanksgiving-dinner-of-this) if anyone's interested.


	8. Experiment Part II

Scott was halfway down the ornately rococo inspired hallway by the time Logan managed to catch up with him; he'd likely been heading for the library to brood by the picture windows, as he so often liked to do. 

"Goggles!" Logan barked, and Scott stopped, but did not turn around, merely waited. Logan reached his side in a few strides. 

He was taller than Logan, now- most of the older boys were, and half of the girls; Logan wasn't an especially tall man. But he was all teenage anger simmering under a would be-adult façade by the time Logan took him by the shoulders to look up into his face. 

When he looked into the eyes beneath his protective (for others) eyegear. Scott petulantly avoided his gaze, turning to the side, so Logan took his shaved-smooth chin in hand like he might with a skittish thoroughbred racehorse. Though he hadn't intended it to be condescending, Scott's expression conveyed that he was less than pleased by the manhandling. 

"You gonna tell me what this is all about, Summers?" Logan asked, gently now: he saw hurt in Scott's expression, and he suspected that he was the one causing it. 

"I'd rather not." Stiff as a board, still as a statue; that was Scott Summers- the man (boy) Charles was slowly, gradually, grooming to take his place with the weight of many lives bowing his square future-politician's shoulders. He certainly looked the part of a hero, did he not? It was easy to forget the youth under the face of well-bred respectability. 

"Really? Cuz I think you've got plenty you'd like to say simmering in that noggin of yours." Logan gently- always gently, never forgetting the metal his skin concealed- tapped his knuckles to Scott's skull. "And I'm all ears." 

He waited. It didn't take as long as he might have expected. Scott's fists clenched at his sides (he looked like he wanted to throw a punch. Would he? Logan wasn't completely averse to the idea, if it'd help) and took a sharp breath. 

"What are you _doing,_ Logan?! What are you _thinking?!_ Leaving us behind- for _them_?!" 

He was so overwrought that his lips shook; his face went white. "I thought you were ours- how could you leave us- how could you _leave me_?!" 

His voice broke on the last syllable, and suddenly he was eighteen again and not the aged leader he so tried to project. He looked like he might cry. 

Logan remembered the day Charles acquired (collected, to be set on a little shelf and dusted daily and displayed to the world) Scott, the wunderkind mutant to be an Example for all mutants, pulled from the depths of the sea in the burnt remains of a planewreck and promptly put to good use. 

(He'd cried a lot those first few days. Logan couldn't recall him crying since then; not until now. He just threw himself into his work until he forgot how to feel.) 

"I didn't leave you, kid. Wouldn't ever." 

"You _did_ though. You chose them. And now you're all... you're... _close_ with them. You never looked at us like that." 

"Scott. There is no 'us' and 'them'. It's time we realized that, bub. They're just like you. They're crazy-powerful kids who don't have a family. Who don't have much of nothin'. And I need you to put this rivalry down now, because the kids follow your lead. For Kurt's sake, too ... for Charles. And for me." 

Scott still wasn't looking convinced. Logan wondered if he was being unfair; whether he really had abandoned his responsibilities at the X-Mansion. It didn't have to be that way, though, if he could just bridge the gap... 

Oh, to hell with it, then. 

"I love them, Scott," Logan explained, finally allowing himself to acknowledge the words that had been humming through him nonstop for weeks.

Scott stared at him as if he'd just suggested the ocean was made of flannel, the president of the United States was now a cocker spaniel, and the world was not only flat but also pear-shaped. "You... love... Lance Alvers?" 

"Yes. All of them."

"Well... did you ever love _us?"_ This was said almost as an accusation. The eighteen-year-old jutted his chin out, as though anticipating a punch to land: not of the physical variety, but a verbal blow. He fully expected to be punished for his vulnerability, and it made Logan's heart hurt. 

"Scott Summers." Had he been failing him all along, quietly, without even realizing it, to make him feel so darkly? "I'm pretty bad at this talking-about-feelings shit, but lets make one thing clear: I _did,_ I _do,_ and I _will always_ love you- and all the X-Brats." 

More than words could possibly express. More than his own life. More than the entire sorry world all put together. "I love _you,_ Scott. And I want that drummed into your thick skull good and hard, okay? You kids are the only family I've ever known." 

When the boy still looked doubtful, Logan gave in and dragged Scott forcefully into his arms, squeezing him tightly and pounding between his shoulderblades. "As far as I'm fuckin' concerned, you are my son And I want you in my life. But now they are also my sons. I'd like for you to set an example and try to get along, if at all possible. If you can't be friends, at least try not to be enemies."

Scott stood very stiffly for a few seconds, stiff as a tin soldier ( _What was it that Pietro had called the X-kids, back on the first day? Super-soldiers?_ ) and Logan wondered if this was a last cause. Then, with a huge woosh of a sigh, Scott sagged, dropping his chin onto Logan's shoulder. Tentatively, his arms came to wrap around Logan, though it was clear that hugging was neither man's strong suit. "Okay," he sighed. "Okay. I'll do my best." 

"I know you will." Logan thought, not for the first time, that they all ought to have done more of this. Hugged Scott- hugged all of them- more. Loved them more. He at last understood where the phrase 'spilling your guts' came from; he felt emptied, fatigued, almost nauseous by the whole exchange, like his innards had been scooped out and laid bare, to be accepted or rejected. Necessary, but terrifying. 

That was when the first quake hit. 

"Whoa!" Scott stumbled and fell back into the wall; Logan caught an antique crystal vase as it wobbled precariously close to the end of a Menara side-table. The overhead lights swayed. 

The aftershocks of the brief but intense shaking brought with it a speeding Pietro, who stopped his racing a mere breath from Logan's face. 

"Lance," Pietro said shortly, and snatched for Logan's wrist. "Come on; he's got a migraine. We should move him." 

Logan allowed himself to be pulled back in the direction of his own bedroom, unsure of what this all meant. "Does this happen a lot?" he asked, hearing Scott following after them. 

"Oh yeah." Pietro wouldn't look at him; he was too focused on dragging his all-too-slow ass. "Not in a while, but trust me; it can get ugly. I assume you _don't_ want the mansion crashing down and burying everyone?" 

"Holy shit." 

"No kidding." 

Scott jogged to keep up. Efficient in any emergency, he made his intentions clear: "What can I do?" 

If Pietro was surprised to be asked for orders from the head of the 'X-brats', he didn't show it, barely sparing Scott a glance. "Evacuate the mutants and the catering service. Things might start flying." 

_Was it really going to be all that bad?_

The next series of quakes that followed answered that question quickly; a larger-than-life oil painting fell and would have brained the Cyclops with its heavy metal frame had Pietro not knocked him sideways; it banged against the far wall instead, wide as a king-sized quilt, and the corner of it punched a sizable hole straight through the drywall and into the next room. 

Scott gawked at Pietro, astounded, no doubt, that his life had just been so casually saved by a _Brotherhood_ boy, then quickly got over himself. "Right," he said, nodded firmly, and made for the kitchens where screams could be heard. 

"What do I need to do?" Logan asked Pietro, picking his way up the stairs, wincing when he saw the glass in a bay window fall out in a solid sheet and shatter into pieces as the swaying of the mansion's foundation winched the metal foundation out of shape. 

"Pick him up. He's too heavy for me, and he can't kill you like he could Fred. Move him outside and we'll wait it out and hope he doesn't break open the fucking earth again." 

It was cold, completely practical logic. Logan appreciated this- then folded his body over Pietro's to shield his back when a mounted light fixture the size of a mixing bowl fell from the wall and collided sharply into Logan's kidneys. He bit back a pained sound, feeling the edge of his pelvis snap, and fell to a knee. 

"Give it a moment," he panted, and was surprised when Pietro knelt with him, supporting his upper body right there in the middle of the quaking double-staircase. There was no fear or panic on his face as the shredded meat of Logan's kidney plumped out once more, the split skin reforming and the bone reassembling, leaving nothing but a bright red bloodstain over his back pocket. "I'm surprised you haven't run for it," he panted, trying not to show the pain he was, briefly, in. "You probably should; I'll take care of-" 

"Not happening." Pietro's voice was clipped as he dragged Logan back to his feet. "Lance has hurt himself in this shit before. With our luck, he'll get his stupid ass killed with a migraine someday. He isn't immune to falling furniture, either, and sometimes I can make it less bad." Pietro sounded angry now. "Fucking. _Idiot._ If he knew he was feeling this bad, why didn't he _say_ something?! When this is over I'm going to drown him in the toilet." 

"I feel like I should probably discourage that," Logan panted, skipping a step of the floating staircase when the wall bracket rattled loose and the step fell to the floor below. This would all be so much easier if Jean were here to help. 

At last they reached the second floor, and then the second bedroom _of_ the second floor. Logan found resistance when he tried to open the door; inside the room, his chest of drawers had tumbled against it. He gave a mighty heave with his shoulder and pushed both aside.

He didn't see Lance at first; he'd balled up under the quilt on Logan's king-sized bed, and the lights had gone out from both lamps breaking. He'd drawn the curtains, and plaster from a great crack in the ceiling had rained over all of everything. He heard him though, groaning softly, and he smelled the faintest sour hint of vomit and Lance-blood underneath all the dust; he'd cut his arm on some falling debris. 

Pietro, in a blur of motion, left Logan's side and knelt on the bed, pulling the covers back to show Lance's red face, hands clasped tightly over his ears. 

"It hurts," he whimpered, eyes squinted shut to block out even more light. "Tro, it won't stop. I didn't mean to, I just-" 

Logan had never before seen such a gentle, worried expression on Pietro's face; he looked an entirely different person when he touched cool thumbs to Lance's eyelids, rubbed his remaining knuckles over his temples. He didn't speak- would additional sound be too much for Lance right now?- so Logan followed his example. 

The quakes lessened in intensity- only fractionally so, but it felt like the rocked house was holding its breath, like Lance was fighting harder to repress himself- shaken soda held under a thumb- if only to keep Pietro safe. 

Logan might not have a better opportunity than this, so, when Pietro looked at him, he stepped in and scooped Lance, blanket and all, from the bed. It was going to be hard carrying him downstairs like this, but maybe Charles' elevator system was still functioning... 

Lance's feverishly-hot, clammy forehead pressed into Logan's neck. "Sorry," he whispered. "Sorry, sorry... I keep making things worse for you." 

Maybe it was because Logan had just been forced to say the words, to acknowledge what he had already known deep down, but it just made his heart squeeze to hear him talk like that. "Shush, bub," he mumbled, trying to keep his voice quiet, but Lance cringed at the sound anyway. Then, maybe because his guts had been spilled past his tightly-sealed lips earlier, couldn't contain them now: "I love you." 

Oh, _shit._ He shouldn't have said that. Lance wasn't Scott; Logan hadn't known Lance, really known him, for terribly long at all. And the boy was in unstable condition right now: such an admittance might have the power to bring the mansion down... or just make him really uncomfortable. It was downright _selfish_ of Logan to say it, in fact. 

While Logan was internally, silently panicking at his careless (if true) words, he heard a gentle knock on the door. 

Nobody was immediately visible when it pushed open once more, til Todd cautiously scuttled inside, clinging to the ceiling to avoid more hazardous areas. He was preceded by- Logan had to blink to make sure he wasn't seeing things- _Fred,_ taking tiny steps and carrying Charles in his arms. 

"Set me down, please, Mr. Dukes," Charles said quietly, and, looking both uncomfortable and embarrassed, Fred did as directed, gently placing Charles on the edge of the bed. 

Charles then looked at Logan. "Place the boy next to me." 

* * *

The elevators had indeed stopped working. Fickle things. He'd paid a grand fortune for them, and for _what?!_ Every little minor mutant-related disaster shortened the electricity right out. Honestly! 

What was worse, the hardware floor of the main room had cracked like the Grand Canyon, and was littered with glass and other broken things. Not exactly wheelchair-friendly. This was an aggravating pickle. 

Sighing deeply, Charles had closed his eyes and concentrated, 'sniffing' the bright young mutant minds, mentally speaking, waiting just outside like a bouquet of very distinct flowers, until he found the one he was searching for. It stood out unpleasantly like a weed in his garden; it just didn't Belong, but he needed it just the same. 

_Mr. Dukes, I have need of you,_ he called, tapping into that mind. _Both your strength and stability. Come here now, please._

He felt, seeing in his minds-eye, the way the large mutant jumped in alarm. _**Oh gosh!**_ Fred mentally boomed, so loudly that Charles winced, pressing his fingertips irritably to his eyelids. _**Who's there?!**_

Of _course_ it was just his luck that the only one who could help him now was the imbecile; what a fine holiday this was proving to be. 

_Gently, Fred- you don't have to shout. It's only I, Charles Xavier, speaking with you. I need you to come back inside and carry me so that I can help your friend._

A pause. Then, eagerly, _**You can help Lance?!**_

He was inside the mansion before Charles had need to call again, the toad seated astride his shoulder like it was his own personal throne. _**What do you need me to do, professor?!**_

"Speaking out loud is fine now, Fred. I need you take me upstairs, where Mr. Alvers is." He wasted no time pointing out the now obsolete elevator. 

"Nah," Todd shook his head, climbing from Fred's shoulder and onto the wall, where he stuck like Velcro. "There's a maintenance wheel here, see? I got this." 

He pointed. Charles blinked. So there was; too high on the wall for anyone but someone with a ladder, or wall climbing abilities, could access. Interesting. 

He would have preferred Scott or Hank or... ( _don't think about Logan; Logan is going through a_ phase _right now; like those months when you first got him and he refused to sleep inside. He'll be over it soon._ ). But he had Fred, and maybe that was best: Fred's secondary mutation was spacial stability. You could shake him like dice in a cup and he still wouldn't fall over- _immovable, unbreakable Fred._

Though he braced himself as Fred bent to lift him from the wheelchair- no doubt the oaf would jerk him around as though he were a ragdoll- and was again surprised at the gentleness exhibited as he was lifted, held to a broad chest. 

His mental link with Fred must have still been active, because he caught a hint of old memory; a red-bodied, white-faced cow, having wandered away from her paddock, sinking her forelegs in the mud and becoming trapped. She lowed piteously until Fred, not yet thirteen years old yet large as a grown man, stumbled across her and gasped. He was more distressed about her trapped state than even she was. 

Looking left and right to ensure that nobody was watching, the child had raced for her, lifting her body out of the mud and onto dry land as though she weighed no more than a rabbit before standing and stroking her velvety nose, whispering reassurances into her ears until she calmed enough to return home with him. 

The memory was gone as soon as it had come, and then Charles was quick to close the mental link, not wanting to watch the full highlight-reel from a very isolated and conservative childhood in - and subsequent banishment from-- small-town Georgia's cotton fields. 

Todd made quick work of the elevator's pulley system. When they'd almost reached the second floor, he paused, a hand still on the wheel crank. 

"Say, what _are_ you planning to do to Lance, yo?" he asked, and though his tone was light, Charles sensed a new intensity- a suspicion- in his question. The toad was sharper than many gave him credit for; clever as a sneaking fox. He could read people like a phone book (no mutations there; it was simple learned experience from a childhood spent begging on the streets). "I'm thinkin' maybe we should _discuss the plan_ before we bring you to him." 

Oh, such tightly-wound little weeds they all were, existing merely to suck the nutrients out of Charles' carefully cultivated strides of mutant pride and acceptability. Just by their mere existence, their presentation and image and selfishness, they set him back every step of the way... but to rip one from the dirt would be to invite the wrath of all the rest. Luckily for them, Lance was still too useful to rip out of his garden entirely. 

"I will examine the source of his migraines and see if I can alleviate the symptoms so that he stops destroying my home." 

Todd frowned- perhaps he sensed that wasn't all to the truth- but Fred seemed satisfied enough with the answer. He resumed carrying Charles all the way to the bedroom and then fell back, waiting for his friend to be healed like the inflicted masses seeking but to touch Christ's robe in his passing. 

So now Charles sat, watched by three boys and one man as he prepared himself for a deep mental dive. (He didn't relish this; imbibing himself fully into another's mind was always a jarring, risky, and uncomfortable experience, and this mind was sure to be full of nothing but aggression and violence- a waste of gray matter attached to such a useful mutated gift.) 

One boy was staring more intently than others, but Charles was very, very good at ignoring Pietro Maximoff, so he hardly noticed his presence at all.

He wanted to get this over with. Best make this excavation quick, then. 

He passed a hand over Lance's forehead and eyes, bending close enough to feel breath hit his cheek, and _focused._

_Pain, pain, radiating pain in sick green globs and pulsing red masses; nasty stuff that throbbed in intermittent waves. Layer after layer after _layer_ of pain; the first, like smoke- the second, near-intangible threads dissolving like cotton candy. The third, a more gelatinous form- all these, he pushed through in his efforts to reach_ **Lance.**

**I love you.**

Charles startled at hearing Logan's voice, so fresh in memory, saying such words. Had Charles _ever_ heard Logan say such a sentence? No; he was certain he had not- not to anyone. Yet here it was, right in Lance's most recent memories! 

Charles was deeply rattled by this, and quickly pulled away into the ever-overwhelming stream of fleeting thoughts and impressions, both past and present. There was no dignified, tidy way of doing this; they slowed for no man. 

(is my mom still alive) Kitty Pryde is cute when she- _In West Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground was where I spent most of_ \- (does Pietro actually like me or is he just-) _Did I remember to zip up my -_ (What does she mean my rock puns are dumb they're great) He said he loved me but that can't - (I don't deserve love) not good enough _not good enough_ Not Good Enough **Not. Good. Enough.**

He managed to climb out of this stream of consciousness, distinctly ruffled with the insecurities of the teenage psyche, and onto the other side. He noticed the tight, constricted feeling in Lance's head. There was so much _pressure-_ The physical pressure of engorged veins as well as emotional pressure. The boy was a ticking time bomb of repressed, ulcer-level anxieties. 

The chorus of 'not good enoughs' chased Charles deeper and deeper into Lance's mind; it seemed to be a core makeup for his character. Funny; Scott's mind was very similar in that regard, though also much more neatly compartmentalized; Charles did not know it, but the messy layout of Lance's thoughts was very similar to his bedroom at home. 

He could enter Lance's memories. He could... but he had no desire to do so. He had an idea of what he'd see: A neglected childhood with a heroin addict of a mother followed by many years tumbling through foster homes- how droll. Power discovery at age fifteen- more interesting, but still. A lifetime of thuggish antics because he was too immature to grow up? No, thank you. He instead turned his focus to the more manual end of Lance's brain- the part that controlled his functions. 

This was a dangerous area to tamper with- not for the faint of heart. He could easily paralyze or render the boy catatonic in such a place, and he didn't want that on his conscience. (Logan would never forgive him.) He treaded with great caution as he slowed Lance's breathing, the racing of his heart, into a state that was near sleep. He lowered his blood pressure, sluiced his anxiety away like grease through a straw. He felt rather like a mechanic fine-tuning a car's transmission, washing spilt oil off an engine. It would help in the short term, but would not eradicate the problem for the future. 

He pumped dopamine and oxytocin through Lance's neurotransmitters, doping him up with positive feelings until he relaxed, until the pressure faded and the miasma of pain edged away. Only then did Lance notice what was happening. 

"... Professor?" Lance was far too calm to be upset over the presence of another in his mind; he regarded Charles with only the barest hint of curiosity. 

"Yes; I'm here. Are you quite finished destroying my home, Mr. Alvers? I must say, that's not how I expect my guests to behave." 

A spark of guilt; because it was not his own, he felt it distantly, while Lance experienced it in full. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. I just get these headaches and-" 

"- And you have such little control of your own powers that it completely takes you over." 

Perhaps he wasn't being fair. Any powerful mutant, especially one so very young, could be terribly destructive in times of pain or distress. Jean and Rogue had caused him more grief in his career than Lance could ever hope to do. Still, he was annoyed with the boy. 

He watched anger spark- slowed as it was by his hormone-drugged state, Charles could actually watch as it travelled through his mind, lighting up like a Christmas tree as it bounced off galaxy-like neurotransmitters. Anger was an emotion the Avalanche was very comfortable with, but anger was also a deceptive emotion- it so often acted as a mask to hide other feelings. 

_Not good enough. Not good enough. Not. Good. E-_

"Oh, stop feeling so sorry for yourself, Mr. Alvers; it does grow very tedious. You believe that you're not good enough? Then _improve._ You're more intelligent than you want to let on. You are just not trying hard enough." 

**I'm trying as hard as I can. Everything I do. What more can I do?! I'm just a kid. I'm _just_ \- "** (Not. Good. Enough.) 

"You don't need to convince _me,_ of your worth, Mr. Alvers. My opinion of you will not change. I'm helping you as a favor to your guardian. I'm merely offering you free advice: look beyond yourself, stop your adolescent self-indulgent pity parties, and be the man, the leader, that your team needs you to be. Forget yourself, and go to work."

Lance fell silent, petulant. Charles could see him now- or rather, a distorted version of him. He looked small; weak, with clownishly large feet for tripping over. His back was curved at an unnatural angle- spineless- and there was a gaping hole in his chest in which his pumping heart was exposed, vulnerable, despite the yards and yards of barbed wire he'd wrapped around himself as though to keep others at bay. Charles was seeing the Avalanche as he currently saw himself. 

"Are you going to get out of my head anytime soon?" he asked crankily after a long moment spent regarding one another; he had his hands folded over his body and even as Charles watched, the wire dug into his arm, which bled sluggishly: he hurt himself by his own defenses as much as he hurt anyone else. "Or do you feel like sticking around? I'm pretty sure I'm about to fall asleep." 

"You are," Charles confirmed. "A very deep sleep. I am sorry that you're prone to migraines, for what it's worth; from experiencing it second-hand, I see that they are very intense. I suppose the best advice I have to offer is to work on your stress-management skills. When you become so terribly anxious, it makes the problem significantly worse." 

"Easy for you to say," Lance grumbled. "It's always easier for an outsider to say that stuff." 

Charles had to concede that point: it was true. As he opened his mouth to say so, one of Lance's memories slipped to the forefront: it was of himself, curled up in the drivers' seat of his jeep parked, as far as Charles could see, in a strip mall at dusk. In the passengers' seat beside him, Tolanski had placed a small, webbed hand on his back. 

"You need to eat, Lance," Tolanski was coaxing. When Lance shifted in his seat, Charles could see the gauntness of the Avalanche's face; he had been at least twenty pounds underweight when this memory took place. "You haven't eaten since-" 

"Shut up," Lance snapped, the fatigue in his eyes sparking with new vigor. "If I don't eat, I'm hungry. Big deal. _Pietro_ doesn't eat and he fucking collapses. Fred doesn't eat, and he can't even move. I can skip for another night." 

"You're being an idiot," Todd protested. "I saw how dizzy you got earlier. No offense, man, but I don't want you driving me home if you're seeing black spots. _Eat. The_ fucking. _Sandwich._ " 

He thrust a bag of dollar-menu fast food burgers at Lance, glaring at his leader with such adamancy in his orb-like yellow eyes that Charles saw the moment Lance crumbled, reaching for one with a shaking hand. He was shaking so hard, in fact, that he dropped the whole thing on the floorboards of the car. 

The aggravation in Todd's eyes melted away to only a tired grief. "Oh, Lancelot," he sighed, and bent to pick it up, unwrapping it for him. He ripped the thing- flaky bun, thin patty of meat smeared with dots of ketchup- in half, then into quarters, and then handed one over. Lance ate it slowly and, as he did so, tears pricked in the corners of his dark eyes. Todd passed him a second, third, and fourth segment until the burger was gone. 

"What are we gonna do, Todd?" Lance asked, voice warbling. His lip trembled and, with it, came a crashing wave of humiliation; a weariness, a deep, brotherly love for Todd. A slipping of control. _Weak. Not good enough. Not-_

"Oh, man, don't _cry,_ " Todd moaned, looking at an absolute loss. But Lance couldn't stop himself now that he'd started. Todd was the only one he could show this side of himself to: it would only frighten Fred, and it would likely disgust Pietro. When Lance bent his head down to the steering wheel and bit down hard on his own lip to muffle a sob, Todd gave in and leaned against his shoulder. 

"It'll be okay, yo," Todd said, though he looked doubtful, then forced an eager smile, wanting- needing- to fix things. "I'll swipe some wallets at the game tonight; we'll make so much dough we'll eat for a week- _two_ weeks! Just leave it to me." 

The memory faded, leaving Charles blinking a little hollowly. He'd gotten too deep into that one; Lance's feelings of despair had become his _own-_ if for only a moment, aware that, for Lance Alvers, failure would forever taste like cheap grease and salt that he didn't believe he deserved. 

He needed to end this quickly. 

_"I love you."_ Logan's voice again, fainter now that the memory was less fresh. The words seemed to fortify Lance a little; Charles saw the moment when a thin skin formed over his exposed heart, protecting it from the elements of uncertainty. 

_"Unbelievable,"_ Charles murmured, and prepared to send Lance into a sleep so that he could leave this place. 

"What is?" Lance asked. 

"You somehow managed to earn the love of my oldest friend- something I haven't done in half a century of contact, might I add- in mere weeks of proximity. Forgive me if I find you both puzzling and irksome." 

Lance paused. Then, bizarrely, impossibly, he began to _laugh._ "You think Logan doesn't _love_ you?! God; and I thought you were supposed to be smart." 

"I fail to see what's so amusing about this." 

Lance was still laughing. It grated on Charles' nerves. "Dude, the guy would move mountains for you; anyone with eyes could see that. I can't believe you're _jealous_ of me for _that._ And yet _I'm_ the one who needs to grow up and quit wallowing?!" 

Charles stared at him, irritated. Lance's amusement was infectious, though, lighting up his brain brighter than his anger, his insecurities. It was breathtaking to witness: warm and bright and sparkling every color of the rainbow. As he laughed, his self-image transformed, resembling little-by-little his true form. The memories of his mind changed with it- positive glimpses at times spent with his friends. 

Logan's hand ruffling his hair, grouching about Lance's fashion choices but with a smile crinkling his eyes to show that it was only teasing. 

Pietro's peaceful, dreaming face sharing his pillow in the early light of morning. 

The little smile Fred wore whenever Lance brought in flowers to stick in a bottle in the kitchen. 

The way Todd got when he was laughing _really_ hard- rolled onto his back, giggling and wheezing with his legs bicycling the air. 

The feel of the sharp, chill breeze on his face during a late-night joyride with the radio blaring and his boys singing along with it. 

_Laughter is so very similar to love._

"I think it's time you slept, young man," Charles said firmly, and finally climbed out of the Avalanche's mind. 

His own senses, thoughts, returned to him gradually. He'd gone in deep- deeper than he should, so much so that he felt a little out of place- afraid to look at the Avalanche's face beside his in case he should be sucked in again. Sometimes, though he'd never admit it, his own powers frightened him. 

Logan touched his back, concern in his voice as he asked, "You gonna be okay, Chuck?" 

Charles worked his mouth, for a moment afraid when no words would come. Finally, with great relief, he found his voice. "Yes, Logan. It's alright now. That was... a most enlightening experience." 

When he turned his head, he saw warmth in Logan's eyes. Was that love, even if he'd never put a word to it before? Could the Avalanche possibly be right about something like that? Experimentally, he rested his own hand on top of Logan's, and immediately felt pressure as Logan gripped his fingers tight. 

"I'd be most appreciative if someone would fetch my chair for me, though," he said, and felt better as he sat up and regained control. "I don't particularly enjoy being carted around like a diva." 

"Of course." Logan nodded. "Right away. And we'll fix the place up, too- you don't gotta lift a finger." 

Charles dared look around the mess of a room, saw the way the Brotherhood boys pressed close. Perhaps he was still seeing them through Lance's eyes, because for a moment, they were almost beautiful in their pure love for their leader. They, it was clear to see, did not consider him 'not good enough.' 

He jerked his face back to Logan's when his eyes met Pietro's, not wanting to confront _that_ particular disaster. Not yet. 

After a pause that ran so long it began to merge into awkwardness, Todd raised his hand. 

"So, like," he said, glancing at Fred and then grinning a little wickedly. "Now that the fun's over... I was informed there would be pie?"


	9. Interlude: Scott Summers Claps Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, fluff, fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for homophobic slur mid-chapter.

Logan was not at all prepared for the knocking on the door.

It was ten in the morning on a school day, and he was going about the house doing chores with a meatloaf browning in the oven. He had a stack of books on the mantel he'd just picked up at the library that he needed to put away before the kids got home (Pietro would likely make fun of him for trying to research more about Jewish holidays) but really, he was just watching "The Bold, Dark Edge of Life." 

TBDEL, as it was known by its fans, was a soap opera that had a quiet, guilty place in Logan's life. He'd stumbled upon it on accident while channel-surfing one morning and, a little lobotomized by its ridiculousness, he'd lost a solid hour and a half watching unrealistically attractive people fight, make love, suffer amnesia, and realize they were one another's long-lost-siblings. 

He'd returned to it the next morning, and the next, telling himself he was only watching to laugh at the trashy antics of the bizarrely-named characters. Bianca Midnight, Klaus Wulfenhaur, Dante Rienheld and the crew had started out as a joke, then became a habit. Almost two months of dedicated watching later, he begrudgingly admitted that he'd become a sincere fan of the show... but only in secret. 

"Bianca, you _idiot!_ " he protested, stopping the vacuum mid-push to shout at the TV screen. Couldn't she _see_ that Klaus was using her for her mother's fortune?! "He doesn't love you!" 

He was so focused on the television, where Bianca was stroking a manicured finger down Klaus' chiseled face, that he almost ignored the knocking on the door entirely. It was probably just a package delivery- Todd was always ordering weird things from joke websites on his computer-thing. 

The scent at the doorway wafted to him a moment later and he froze, surprise blooming bright patches of pink on his grizzled face. He glanced down at himself. Barefoot, shirtless, and wearing only ratty pajama-bottoms was fine when doing chores alone, but not with _this_ special brand of company. 

"Logan," Hank called, impatient but amused, through the cracked window. "I can see you standing there. Are you going to let me in or not?" 

* * *

Lance _hated_ English class.

Despite all appearances, he wasn't a bad student, not when he actually put in a modicum of effort. Chemistry was a breeze; all the sciences were, anyway. He was fine at math. History wasn't so bad. 

But English- or rather, _remedial_ English (he hadn't passed on the first go-round) was just a chore. He didn't mind reading the books (usually), but analyzing them to death? Breaking down sentences until they were practically meaningless? Trying to force his brain to string sentences together in a way that made any semblance of sense? It was practically unbearable. He just wasn't cut out for it. 

The problem was, the first half of his senior year was the first semester that Lance had really _tried._ And tried hard, busting his ass to get halfway decent work finished and turned in on time. Maybe it was because he wasn't so damn hungry all the time, or some of his old anger had faded out over the weeks. Maybe he was just growing up. 

Mr. Glenn, a tall, lanky man in his late fifties with quite the round beer-belly poking through his button-up shirts, considered himself a fair intellectual but was an irritable sourpuss of a teacher, and his hatred of mutant students had been profoundly blatant since day one. Why he had accepted Scott Summers as his teacher's aide that semester was beyond him, but it was a double whammy: Mr. Glenn in the front of the room saying things that barely made sense and making Lance feel stupider by the minute, and Scott in the back covering his meticulously penned essays in scrawly red pen corrections, fully aware of just _how_ stupid he really was. It was easily the worst ninety minutes of Lance's school day. 

That was why, when his essay on _One Flew Over the Cukoo's Nest_ slammed down on his desk and he saw that not only were there very few Scott corrections overall, but he'd managed to get an 89% on it, he was unable to hold back a breathy exclamation of shocked joy. " _Good!_ " Scott had written in his neat handwriting, right beside Lance's name. 

_Shit, really?!_ Yeah, he'd worked hard on it for three weeks, but _really?!!_ This was amazing. He couldn't wait to show Pietro... 

His smile was making his face ache- until he tilted his head back and saw Mr. Glenn staring, sternly, down at him. 

"I don't suppose you were cheating, Mr. Alvers?" he asked quietly, and Lance's mouth shut with a startled click. 

"N-no, sir," he shook his head. He hadn't- unless looking at his notes from the year before, when he'd had a better teacher, counted as cheating? Surely not... 

Perhaps Mr. Glenn saw the doubt in his eyes. He pounced upon it. "See me after class," he said curtly. 

"But I didn't!" Lance couldn't stop himself from saying. "I really- I didn't cheat..." 

He knew the other students were looking at him now. Hell; he could feel _Scott_ looking at him from where he sat in the back of the room, already grading through a new stack of work for one of Mr. Glenn's other classes. 

Mr. Glenn snorted. "Please, Mr. Alvers. Don't embarrass yourself any further, if you can help it. I know that your kind is predisposed to dishonesty, but if you have any pride at all, you should work on being a better credit to your _species-_ " 

Lance froze. What could he say to that? Nothing at all. It was all hopeless, anyway; he'd never pass English. He'd be forced to attend school another year; a pathetic nineteen-year-old at graduation- or worse, never graduate at all, and then- 

"He didn't cheat." Scott's voice was cool, polite even, from the very back of the classroom. "I've had fifteen weeks to get used to Lance's writing style. I can tell when he's copying from other sources. He didn't do that once here. I looked over his handwritten pre-drafts, and saw how his ideas for the essay evolved over time. This is his own work, and it's admirably high quality." 

Lance's eyes boggled. Already at the front of the room, posed with chalk in his hand to begin a new lecture, Mr. Glenn froze as well. 

"What I can't help but wonder," Scott said, voice cool, gaze flinty. "Is how you've been doing the same thing for twenty-five years, yet you still haven't figured out how to teach the material in a way that makes it at all appealing or accessible to anyone but yourself. Instead, you just use it as a stepping-stool to make yourself appear more intelligent than those you deem inferior." 

Silence fell over the class. All eyes turned towards Scott. After a tense second, titters and whispers broke out. Mr. Glenn's face grew from pink to red to an alarming plummy color. Someone let out a surprised bark of a laugh before clapping a hand over their own mouth. 

"S- _Summers_ -" 

"In addition, I also question why you project so much hatred towards mutant minors, as you seem to have no qualms about making unwanted advances on my friends when you think nobody is watching." 

The audible "ooh" this last statement sent across the classroom was like a rolling wave. A pair of girls sitting in the front exchanged an uncomfortable look and scooted closer to each other, away from their teacher. 

Mr. Glenn's jowls quivered as he gave a visible tremor, an eye twitching, apoplectic with rage. He thrust a finger at the door. "Summers..." he hissed through a clenched jaw. "Get- out of my class- mutant _freak-_ " 

"Gladly." Scott stood and serenely, slowly, collected his belongings from the back table where he'd been doing his grading, and strolled leisurely towards the door. He lightly rapped his knuckles on Lance's desk as he passed by, a tiny, smart little _tap-tap,_ and then he was gone down the hallway. 

Lance stared after him, eyes bugging comically. 

There were more snickers and whispers following his departure; Mr. Glenn seemed too frozen to do a thing about it. The stick of chalk fell from his hand and onto the floor, and then he turned to look at Lance. 

"I should uh..." Lance stammered, grabbing his bag and vaulting from the chair so quickly that he knocked it over. "I should go check on him..." 

He raced into the hallway and down the direction Scott had gone before anyone could call him back. 

He found Scott leaning against the wall by the bathrooms, right in the very place a bad confrontation had occurred shortly between his wisdom tooth surgery between himself, Lance, Todd, Fred, Jean Grey... and Duncan Matthews. There was still a chunk missing from the opposite wall's plaster (Scott's doing) and a long, uneven crack in the floor (Lance). It wasn't the first time the two of them had been on the same side of a fight, but it was the first time they hadn't been _forced_ to be so. 

"That was... nuts," Lance said, coming to lean against the same wall as Scott, peeking at him out of the corner of his eyes. They stood at about the same height, but Scott's posture was ramrod-straight while Lance was a habitual sloucher. "What crawled up your ass and made all _that_ spew out?!" 

Scott made a face at his crudeness. "I just got tired of him, I guess. Did you know when he asked me to be his aide, he said, quote, _'I wouldn't normally consider one of 'your' kind, but you're such a model student I'll make an exception'_ ? And then laughed about it, like I should be grateful?" 

Now it was Lance's turn to cringe. "Gross. You know he'll just go on a rampage about 'no such thing as a good mutie' now that you've shown some spine, right?" 

Scott sighed. "Yeah, I know. I should probably feel sorry for saying it, but I don't. Hank's been trying to get him fired for making passes at Rahne anyway; maybe this'll do the trick." 

"Wow. What a creep." 

"No kidding." 

Lance thought about the past two weeks; he'd been spending an awful lot of time at the Xavier institute, at first slowly repairing the damages he'd wrought on the building's foundation, reassembling some of the art. Scott had supervised the majority of it- he'd assumed to make sure Lance wasn't screwing it up- but more often than not, he ended up helping. Puttying the liquid drywall flat; painting over it evenly. Never saying much, but not being overly hostile either. 

Even during training sessions in the danger room, Scott had been making a visible effort to include, and sometimes even listen to himself, Lance's suggestions in battle simulations as both leaders guided their respective teams. He was still obnoxious abut it most of the time, but... 

Well, hell. The halfway point of senior year was an odd time to be offering an olive branch for an old rivalry, but maybe it _was_ time after all. 

"You're a lot of things, Alvers, but you aren't stupid," Scott said unexpectedly, interrupting Lance's musings. "Most of the time." 

"Oh." Would this feeling of shocked wonderment never cease? He felt like despite being aware of him for years, he'd only just met this person. "Uh... thanks. I don't think you're stupid either. Despite all your weird man-cleavage outfits." 

Scott snorted loudly. Then, very awkwardly, he leaned in to punch Lance on the arm. It stung. Lance tried and only partially succeeded in hiding a grin; his mouth quirked up in a half-smirk that wouldn't go away. 

"Asshole." 

"Delinquent." 

* * *

"So you're playing hooky from work today!" Logan smirked. "I'm so proud of you. Can I take a picture on this historic day? I'll label it as 'The Day Hank Finally Broke the Rules'." 

They were standing in Mystique's purloined bedroom that Logan was slowly taking over. He'd salvaged his own bedding from home, taken all her things and most of the furniture to the storage unit Keisha had acquired, and had begun hanging up his own photos and exercise equipment. He'd also replaced the doorknob the first time he'd woken to a creepily sleepwalking Todd staring vacantly at him from the corner of the room. (Quoth the Fred: _"He's done that to everyone at least once. I guess that means you're one of us now."_ ) 

As he dressed in more socially acceptable wear (his favorite old jeans were getting a little tight; he had to bounce a few times to pull them over his butt. Maybe he'd gained a few...) Hank walked in and out of the room, carrying boxes. He set up a bookshelf and began stocking it with different hardbacks. 

"Call it a housewarming gift from Xavier Mansion," Hank explained. "We all pitched in." 

By 'we all,' he of course meant himself, Ororo, and the kids old enough to make their own finances. Logan doubted he meant Charles as well, as the old man had made his disapproval of the whole situation quite clear. 

He caught Hank sneaking peeks at his torso as he rummaged for a non-dirty shirt to wear. "Yeah, yeah, gloat it up," he grumbled, patting his belly. "You don't understand- Fred makes the most amazing macaroni..." 

Hank rolled his eyes. "I guess I'm here to add to it then," he remarked, and set both a tin of seasonally appropriate gingerbread cookies and several cartons of tea bags on the shelf, as well as the very same mug he often reserved for his and Logan's shared tea breaks. "My contribution to the housewarming." 

Logan tried to fight the smile; he really did. In the end, he had to bury his head in the closet as it briefly eclipsed his face. " _Aw,_ Bigfoot. You shouldn't have." 

"Yes, well. That's not the only reason I'm here." 

Logan emerged from the closet so quickly that he smacked his head on the doorjamb. "Oh? Are you here to seduce me? I accept, but please be gentle; I'm fragile." He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously until, scoffing, Hank rolled his eyes a second time. 

"Mind out of the gutter, please; we don't want to make your motorcycle jealous. I have some information that you asked for." 

From the pocket of his tweed coat (complete, of course, with elbow patches) he withdrew a flat envelope and sat at the foot of Logan's bed, patting the space next to him. 

Abandoning his quest for a shirt, Logan sat next to him. The bed sagged a little under their combined weight. As Hank efficiently used a claw to slice open the envelope, Logan had a sudden realization. 

"This is about the Maximoff twin, isn't it? The, uh. The little witchy girl." 

Hank blinked in surprise. "Why, yes, it is. Has Pietro told you about her?" 

Logan shook his head. "I found out from his birth certificate. He... doesn't know that I know. It seems like a sensitive topic." 

"Oh." Hank looked troubled. "Well, yes. It is. I was quite disturbed about what I found actually." He withdrew from his envelope two grainy photographs and handed them over. One featured two sleeping newborn babies in a single basinet; both swaddled in onesies and tucked under a teddy bear-patterned blanket. The smaller of the two had rolled onto its side, an arm tucked over the larger. They were undersized, as most twin infants were, but not alarmingly so. 

Flipping the picture over, Logan saw in thin, tidy penmanship the words _'W' and 'P' Maximoff, 6 days.'_

Carefully, he handed the picture back to Hank and took the second. 

The twins were children in this image; kids playing in a field of poppies. The taller of the two was a girl in a red-gingham dress with ice-blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile made for war; she looked to be quite the tiny hellion. Her hair was secured in two plaits, sealed at the tips with barrettes. The smaller boy, shyly standing just behind her, was unmistakably a young Pietro. 

Logan couldn't tear his eyes from the boy that would one day grow up to be the notorious Quicksilver. His eyes travelled from his tiny smile directed towards the ground to his tidy sky-blue corduroy vest and khaki trousers, to the way his fingers were laced with his sister's. It was Pietro, and yet _not_. It was Pietro before life had smashed and reassembled him into something sharp and hard and bitter. 

_'W' and 'P',_ the back of this photograph said as well. _'5 years. Zamość.'_

"What happened to her?" Logan asked. He realized he'd shifted on the bed so that he had pressed against Hank's thick arm as a bastion against the chill he felt, both the one outside his body and the one of foreboding within. _And what happened to him?_

In answer, Hank handed over a stack of paperwork, both handwritten and computer-typed. Records; reports; correspondence between one C. Xavier and the Mental Institute for the Peculiarly Advanced. 

Logan shifted his weight back against his headboard and began to read. 

* * *

It was happening again, and Fred's stomach, predictably, twisted itself into a knot when he walked into the school cafeteria and saw - again- Todd and Kurt goofing off together in the hot lunch line. ( _What is he even doing there?! I_ made _him a lunch_!!) 

He knew getting this jealous over his friends making other friends was bad (stupid, pathetic, _laughable._ ) He should be happy for them. He should... but he just couldn't, no matter how hard he tried. 

( _If they love other people, who's to say they'll have enough love leftover for me?_ ) 

He knew Lance was in love with Pietro- any fool with eyes could see that. And he suspected, though it was harder to tell, that Pietro probably returned those feelings. That didn't bother him. Loving each other didn't make them any less of a family- in fact, it just made them more so. 

But things had been changing a lot lately. He saw it most with Todd and Kurt. They spent so much time together lately, both in school and out. They were always laughing together, making jokes that Fred didn't understand, and there was that ever-present and growing fear that at they were secretly laughing at _him._

( _Todd wouldn't do that..._ ) 

( _... would he?_ ) 

He tried to banish the ugly thoughts, but they just kept coming back. Circling ever-closer like vultures, waiting for him to roll over and let them tear at his soft and bleeding heart.

Someone bumped into him from behind. "Move, fatass," growled a male voice, and Fred turned to see Cory, linebacker on the Derry High football team, smirking up at him. His friends lined up behind him guffawed apeishly. Cory was tall and broad by any human standard, but nobody was as tall and broad as Fred. 

Fred's fists clenched reflexively. He could easily grab this dweeb by the throat and throw him down the hallway- and a year ago, he would have, no questions asked. But he'd been... sapped, lately. Of the will to do so. What had once been hot, indignant fury had melted; faded... and all that was left was sadness. He felt so _lonely_ looking at these boys. Despite how well he'd been eating lately, he felt all the energy sap out of his body. 

"You shouldn't call people that," he said, and his stomach filled with bitter acid when they laughed at him. ( _Don't_ laugh _at me!!_ ) 

To his utter humiliation, tears formed in his eyes. They'd laughed at him back home in Georgia, too. _Fat boy. Stupid boy. Useless boy. Soft boy._

(" _Aww, lookit the baby cry. Cry, baby, cry! Don't worry, it's just Freddie. He's too stupid to fight back, aren't you Freddie, you retard?"_ ) 

Cory's smirk transformed from scoffing laughter to amused delight, transforming his handsome, youthful face to one of cold, ugly cruelty. "Holy shit, guys- the fatass is-" 

_Crying. I know. I can't stop. I know I'm stupid. I know I'm fat. Useless. Soft. I know all my friends will leave me, just like mom and dad. So just go ahead and laugh._

A new voice cut in behind the laughter, quiet in its soft, simmering fury. "The fuck do you think you're doing to him?!" 

Fred used his height advantage to see past the crowd of jeering boys. Pietro was standing angrily in the hallway with hands planted firmly on his narrow hips. 

Slowly, Cory turned to look at the fast-talking boy. His smirk became nastier as he looked Quicksilver up and down. "Aw, if it isn't your boyfriend. He may not be a homo- _sapien_ , but he's sure a homo- _something,_ amiright?!" 

Pietro blinked, startled by this open hostility. Fred growled. They could talk to him like that all they wanted- but Pietro?! His old, violent anger made a resurgence, stopping the flow of tears in their tracks.

He grabbed Cory by the shoulder- beefy as it was, he could still snap it easily out of socket, _knew_ he could, but he didn't do more than drag him away from his housemate. "Don't say things like that to him!" he roared, and for a moment, a look of fear crossed Cory's face- before it was gone, and he was looking more angry than ever. 

"Get off, freak!" he snarled. Fred did so, lest he accidentally hurt him. "What? You love him too? Do you just pass him around in your freak-house? He's pretty enough that if you squinted, you could probably pretend he was a girl." He pressed his eyes shut and began grinding his hips, making awkward, high noises. 

Fred briefly saw red even as Pietro froze, stunned. How _dare_ they- how dare they sully and cheapen one of the only good things in Fred's life- his friendship with the Brotherhood- by implying such awful things?! He drew his hand back; a striking bear's paw that could likely shatter this boy's cheekbone to dust- then paused, hand hanging in mid-air. 

( _Logan would be so disappointed in me if I got kicked out of school for fighting._ ) 

The thought was enough to keep him in place, acutely aware as the shock on Pietro's face froze to arctic temperatures. "Wow," he said slowly, and Fred relaxed a little. He could tell, just by Pietro's tone, that the other boy was going to take an 'I'm above this shit' approach. They'd just walk away. No fights.

Pietro was already reaching for his arm, no doubt intending to drag him into the cafeteria, to their usual table in the back where they could eat lunch together- him and Pietro and Todd and (sigh) _Kurt_ ; maybe Lance, if he wasn't too busy smoking in the back- when Cory spoke again. 

"Fag," he grunted, pushing past them, and then Fred had had enough. He seized Cory by the upper arm, hauling him up off his feet and slamming his back into the wall-- and then was stopped, immobilized in place. He blinked wide eyes, which swiveled in their sockets (the only part of his body he could move) and saw Jean Grey approaching their blockage at the cafeteria door at a sedate pace. 

He immediately looked away. He couldn't even look at her, not after what had happened between them all those months ago. As always when she was around, his mind could project only one thought: **_I'm Sorry._** She probably wasn't tuning in to FM Station Fred, but just in case... 

_"You kidnapped Charles' little pet just because she looks like your mother?"_ Mystique had asked incredulously that night. _"I knew you were mentally impaired, but you might be more trouble than you're worth."_

Thing was, he hadn't been thinking of the superficial resemblance Jean and his mother shared when he'd taken her. Fiery red hair? Sure. Intelligent green eyes? You bet. But it had been her smile that had drawn him in- a sincerely warm smile at a scary, confusing time when nobody else had been kind to him. That was before- before he'd gotten used to these city folks and their fast, dismissive culture; of having so many people around- _so_ many people, when before it had only been cows and locals, and after that, only carnie folk. He'd wanted to take that smile and keep it for himself, bottle it up like liquid happiness. 

Only after Mystique pointed out the resemblance did he understand in full the implications of what he'd done. He knew it was unforgivable, and so forgiveness was something he would never ask for. He had only this to say: **_I'm sorry. I'm not the person I once was. I know better now._**

Jean touched two fingers to her temples when she reached them, ignoring Pietro's nervous stammering ( _"You can let Fred go, he wasn't doing anything, just let him go-"_ ) and spoke aloud in her clear 'Future-Valedictorian' voice: "Hey, Cory; it's been a while." 

Cory, dangling from Fred's hand, eyed her, expression unreadable. "Well," he said, attempting to regain some of his bravado. "If it ain't the uppity bitch herself. You moved on from Summers and want to try on the rest of the football team yet?" 

Had Fred been able to move, he would have slugged the idiot for saying such a foul thing. He'd been there the last time the ex-lovers had interacted; oh, they'd all been there. Him first, then Todd jumping into the fray (Duncan had held the toad up by one arm much like Fred was holding Cory now). Lance had been startled to see the fight, but had stepped in without hesitation, without even an ounce of awareness that Duncan had raised a hand to strike his ex-girlfriend in the face for mouthing off to him. 

Scott was the last one to arrive, and somehow it had, briefly, became something more than standing up to an abusive ex. For one brief, fluid moment, the three Brotherhood boys and the two X-brat leaders had been cohesive; a united front in their indignant fury against a common enemy. 

"Scott and I are quite well and happy, thanks," Jean responded cooly, stopping a scant few centimeters from the dueling pair. One of Cory's thuggish friends made a grab for her, but Pietro knocked them back easily- his eyes were bright; curious to see where this confrontation would go. "But I don't think I can say the same for you. I'm really sorry your dad's such a homophobe, Cory, but really; harassing Pietro won't make your attraction to him go away." 

Pietro's silver eyebrows flew into his hairline, clearly impressed. Cory's friends exchanged an uncertain glance. Cory himself sputtered, spittle flying onto Fred's immobilized face. 

"I'm not-- you _bitch_ \-- take that back-" 

"Take what back? That you've been writing all kinds of sick things about him on the bathroom wall because you can't deal with your own feelings? That the words you call him are the same words your dad calls _you_?!" She closed her eyes, fingers back to her temple, and said in a monotone voice as though reading cue cards, " _That crazy bitch doesn't know what she's talking about I'm not like that she can't know about it, she can't, oh God she's in my mind, she's in my mind, she's reading my fucking thoughts, get out, get out, get-_ " 

"Grey, stop," Pietro put a hand on her shoulder, and she fell silent. Fred dared glance at Cory's expression and saw that he'd gone white-faced in horror. "That's enough. You're going to break him," he told her when she turned to look at him. And Cory certainly was looking rather broken in that moment. 

At last, Fred could move; he gently set Cory back on his feet and backed away, kept backing up until Pietro leaned against his side. He felt oddly exhausted after all that. 

"You _bitch,_ " Cory whispered, hugging himself, but there was no more heat in his words. His friends stepped forward, approaching him cautiously. 

"You alright, C-man?" the taller of the two asked cautiously. "I'm... Cory, if you're gay, you know that's cool, right?" 

"Yeah, dude," the other agreed, daring reach to put a hand on his back. "You're still our C-man, you know?" 

"Come on," Pietro muttered, sliding his elbow through Fred's, and latched onto Jean's wrist. "I'm not gonna say I don't appreciate it, but holy _shit,_ Grey; you're bringing guns to a knife-fight, you know what I mean? You're kind of scary sometimes." 

"Yeah?" she snorted, disdainful as ever. "And what was _your_ plan-- let Dukes get expelled for fighting in school when we have an anti-mutant biblethumper for a principal?" She twisted her wrist out of his grasp, but stayed in step with them as they entered the crowded cafeteria. 

Pietro cocked his head, curiosity breaking through his reproach. "And you care about Fred's school record since... when, exactly?" 

She was saved from having to answer the poignant question by Kurt's cheerful waving from the table in the back that the Brotherhood usually claimed from their own. Not only was Kurt, in his human disguise, taking up a chair, but Rogue was there as well. And, shockingly, _Scott_ sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Lance, with neither boy apparently attempting homicide. Fred couldn't decide what to be the most surprised about, so he settled for standing there and staring at them all, dumbfounded. 

"Come _on_ , guys," Todd whined, mouth full of the lasagna Fred had baked the evening prior. "Lunch is half over." He nudged at Kurt with a bony hip until, rolling his eyes, the other mutant was forced to grab his trey and scoot closer to Scott, making just enough room for Fred to squeeze in, which he did. 

Jean settled primly onto Scott's lap, and when Lance made a good-natured retching noise, Scott shoved him lightly. Pietro, ignoring all lunchroom rules, climbed smugly onto the table and sat cross-legged before Rogue and Lance, stealing from the latter's plate just because he could. 

"Hey guys, who am I?" Kurt asked, and then furrowed his brow, saying in a growly voice, "Hey, kids! Go to bed! Don't burn the house down! Don't do drugs! I'm too old for your shenanigans!" 

Something about hearing Logan's words grumbled in a German accent just about busted them all up; Scott choked on the water he'd been sipping, and Lance's eyes got that crinkly look they always did when he laughed _really_ hard; even Pietro had to clap a hand over his mouth so they wouldn't see his huge smile- why he always hid that smile, Fred would never know. 

"Do Hank! Do Hank!" Jean requested giddily. 

Obligingly, Kurt swiveled to face her, placing a hand on her arm and looking sternly into her eyes. "I'm not _mad,_ " he said in Hank's softspoken tones. "I'm just _disappointed._ Now, _where_ is the blasted _chamomile_?!" 

The table busted up again. It was a long time before they could stop laughing long enough to eat a few bites. 

Other students- some human, some mutant- were glancing their way. Fred could feel their eyes, their curiosity. He found he didn't mind it, oddly enough. Sure, Todd had an arm around Kurt's shoulders, but he was leaning his head against Fred's shoulder, too. Maybe this could be okay. Maybe... 

Maybe love wasn't a resource that could run out, after all. Maybe the solution to more love was just scooting two tables closer together to fit more chairs around it. 

* * *

" _Where_ is the blasted chamomile?!" Hank demanded, scouting through Logan's kitchen cupboards. "I need a drink." 

Usually when people said that, they were asking for something stronger than a cuppa, but Logan knew that when Hank wanted tea, he wanted _tea._

"Aside from the stuff you brought me? There is none. Lance and I are mostly coffee-drinkers..." Logan began, and fell silent at the withering scowl Hank threw his way. 

" _Heathens,_ honestly," Hank grumbled, and stormed off towards Logan's bedroom to grab the tea and mug he'd just gifted him. Because they didn't own a kettle, Logan put a pan of water to heat on the stove and made a mental note to buy one as soon as possible; it might make Hank visit more often. 

The oven timer beeped, so he bent to pull the meatloaf from the oven, thinking uneasily about all he'd learned. _Wanda Maximoff._ At last, the little witchy girl had a name... and a story so sordid that he was still struggling to process it all. The thought of a child locked into an institution like that, shortly before Pietro himself had been abandoned in a middle-of-nowhere gas station... _Well, fuck._

It wasn't even that that was the worst, though. Charles had known the entire time. He was in regular correspondence with the institution- he visited her regularly. As much as Logan wanted to hear his side of the story... something about it made him nervous. If he hadn't seen fit to tell Logan- and why should he? Until very recently, the affairs of the Maximoff family were of little importance to him- then maybe he would feel angry at all this snooping, too. 

_But it is my concern, now,_ he thought, watching steam waft off the perfectly baked meat. _The kid's my family now... shouldn't I at least be aware of his sister?_

Not that he could tell Pietro he knew, either... It was all such a tangled situation. He'd have to do some serious thinking before he decided what his next move might be. 

Hank returned with the tea and cookies a moment later, handing Logan another little white envelope with Pietro's name written across the front in Hank's curly penmanship. Everything Hank wrote always looked like it belonged somewhere fancy, penned with a quill across the Declaration of Independence or something equally important. "Please give this to him tonight," he requested, dropping two teabags into two mugs and lifting the simmering pan from the stove. "He'll find out about the school play sooner or later, but I wanted to tell him myself." 

"You mean he got the part?!" Logan beamed excitedly, stripping off his oven-mitts and taking the envelope to pin it on the refrigerator with a smiley-face magnet. At least there was some good news, then. "What character?" 

"I'll give you a hint." There was a mischievous gleam in Hank's eyes, though his lips remained deadpan-straight. "His name starts with a 'P' and rhymes with your favorite word." 

"Huh." Logan pretended to think this over. "I didn't know there was a character named 'Pank PcCoy' in _A Midsummer Night's Dream,_ but I guess I'm not as well-versed in Shakespeare as you are. I'm sure he'll be thrilled." 

Hank nudged him lightly in the arm. A 'light nudge' from Hank packed quite a wallop; Logan pretended to stumble, though it would have taken significantly more force to actually budge his heavy metal skeleton. "Show mercy, McCoy; we aren't all giants," he said, still completely unable to wipe the smirk from his face. 

"It is not my fault that you are vertically challenged," Hank replied, sniffing haughtily.

Logan laughed; a good, loud belly-laugh that made Hank grin in return. "I like it when you're here," Logan said, then flushed a little. God, he'd grown soft lately. Just spewing out embarrassing things left and right. He tried to play it of casually with a shrug and a bite of gingerbread cookie. 

"I find I like being here as well," Hank mused. "It's a very homey atmosphere. Maybe I should stop by sometime and find out whether Bianca Midnight ever realizes that her old friend Dante Rienheld was the one who loved her all along." 

Logan's eyes widened; a smile curved his face and he pointed the remainder of his cookie at Hank in a shocked, amused gesture. "You watch TBDEL, too?!" 

Hank shrugged, a wicked gleam in his eye. "I'm a casual fan. I catch it on reruns, sometimes." 

Soap operas did not air reruns. Logan would tease him mercilessly for this slip later, but just now he was too enamored to call him out on it. 

"Did you know that Todd has started calling me 'future-dad'? As in, _'Yo, Future-dad! Grumpy-dad told me that you wear a nightshirt and nightcap to bed like a Charles Dickens character'_?" 

Logan inhaled some chamomile tea and coughed, sputtering and choking as he laughed. "Really?!" he asked, eyes streaming. "Aw; he never calls _me_ 'dad' to my face. I wish I could have heard that. What do you think it means? Are we supposed to duke it out, old-school style for the right to be the Ultimate Dad? _There can be only one..."_

"I can't begin to imagine _what_ goes on in that child's mind, but it's terribly distracting when he does it mid-Chemistry class," Hank said stiffly, but he was still smiling. 

"I'll talk to him about it."

They fell into a contented silence, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the small window over the sink that overlooked the back alley. It wasn't much to look at any other time of year, but just now the sun glinting off the perfect, flat snow glinted bright and beautiful. 'Homey' was the right word for it, Logan decided. _Home._ This must be the place. 

"I don't know what to do about Wanda," Logan confessed. "But I know I have to do something. I _will_ do something." 

"I know." Hank nodded, considered. "Not without me, though, alright? Messing with Magneto's son is dangerous enough. I don't think he'd take kindly towards anything involving her. And... Charles may be upset, as well." 

Logan nodded unhappily. He'd considered that angle as well. "You don't have to be involved," he reminded Hank. "This is my can of worms to open." 

"Don't be foolish. We started this together; we'll finish it together. Can this wait until Christmas? I'll have some time off work and be able to dedicate more thought and energy to the process." 

"Well," said Logan. He tried to keep his face straightened out, but it was hard not to crack a grin, not to glance slyly Hank's way. "I _have_ always wanted to have a blue Christmas."


	10. Data

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things toadally get weird.

It was sixth period on a Friday, which was the one hour a week that Todd threw off the shroud (well, oversized, patch-covered denim jacket he'd 'borrowed' from Lance) of normalcy and donned instead the mantle of vigilantism.

Mostly, he did it because Friday was weight-lifting day in gym class. Man, he hated weight day. 

Cutting class was no sweat when one could wall-crawl. Laughably easy, even. He scuttled right on out of the locker room after attendance was called and headed straight to freedom. 

There were eight student bathrooms in Bayville High- four for his assigned gender- which meant that each received an hour of his special attention every month. This time around, it was the one in the Fine Arts building. 

"Okay," he said cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet when he arrived at the plain, unassuming bathroom door, envisioning himself as Zorro, or perhaps Robin Hood, a mask on his face and a sword at his hip. He patted the unusually heavy schoolbag digging into his shoulder. "It's go-time." 

He kicked the door open as dramatically as he could and surveyed the scene, letting his eyes land where they would. 

The largest and most eye-catching of this month's accumulated bathroom graffiti, scrawled above the urinals and taking up half the wall, read the words **'PIETRO MAXIMOFF IS A FLAMING HOMO'**.

Todd sighed and shook his head. Because this particular bathroom was stationed in the arts building, it was very likely Pietro would see- or had already seen- this charming love letter. Well. With some paints of his own, he could certainly improve the décor. He slipped his knapsack off, grabbed a can from inside, and got to work. 

It wasn't _as_ big a project as painting the underside of bridges where he sometimes slept growing up, but there was a certain raw satisfaction to completely flouting all rules and reclaiming such an industrial, cheerless space. The strong fumes nearly made him gag, though, and he wished he could open the door. He didn't dare slip on his Walkman, needing to hear if someone approached, but the nearby choir classroom supplied his musical needs as they rehearsed for their upcoming winter concert. 

" _Silver bells, silver bells..."_ Todd hummed along, coating the wall in vivid pinks, electric blues, purples so popping you could almost taste the grape soda. "Hey, that's a good nickname for Tro." 

Just nine minutes later, the entire wall above the urinals was a burst of color, bold shapes, thick outlines around curving designs that overlapped and spiraled outwards; optical illusion upon optical illusion. He was quite proud of his work. The main message now read **'PIETRO MAXIMOFF IS A FANTASTIC NERD.'** A bloated, poison-green toad above the mirrors served as his signature. 

Pleased, he put his spray paint away and turned his attention to smaller works on the sinks and stalls with his zippered bag of Sharpies and gel pens. Disparaging comments about girls were efficiently and meticulously altered. 'Bitch' and 'Slut' quickly became 'Badass' and 'Superstar' respectively. 

He left most of the doodles of penises alone, although he added a couple cowboy hats and boots to the more lopsided ones for the fun of it and threw in the occasional anthropomorphized vagina here and there for variety's sake. 

He'd kicked off his shoes at some point to climb the walls for better reach and found himself crawling along the porous ceiling tiles, admiring his handiwork, when the door swung open and he froze like a toad in headlights. 

To his great relief, it was not a teacher but Kurt Wagner himself blinking, dazzled and confused, at the acid trip that was now the far wall. 

Grinning, Todd lowered himself a little, freed a hand to prop under his chin to look- in his mind- like a worldly, introspective, _cool_ guy who just so happened to be clinging to a bathroom ceiling.

"Of all the bathrooms in all the school," he drawled wistfully, putting on his best Humphrey Bogart impression. "He had to walk into mine." 

Kurt shrieked in alarm, dropping his backpack, and Todd burst into giggles as the slack-jawed face gawked up at him. 

"Oh, you _scared_ me!" Kurt clapped a hand to his chest over a no-doubt pounding heart. "What are you _doing_ up there?!" 

"Some renovations." Todd dropped the hokey voice and tossed an imaginary cigar aside. He showed Kurt his pack of gel pens and colorful Sharpies. "Some bourgeoisie yahoos at this school don't know the difference between satire and hate-speech. I'm just improving the aesthetic." 

Kurt peered skeptically at the bright artwork on the walls. "You're graffitiing the bathroom." 

"The world is my canvas, honey-bunny. I'm just continuing the traditions of our cave-painting ancestors." 

"Do you tell the police that, too?" 

Todd puffed his skinny chest out proudly. "Psh. _Yeah._ You know it." 

He had, too, when he'd been caught tagging Queens a couple times as a little tadpole. 

Kurt shook his head, half disbelievingly, half admiringly. "Can you come down? This is hurting my neck." 

"Anything for you, o apple of my eye, my moon and stars." 

He tossed his bag of art supplies into a sink below and planted his sticky palm back on the ceiling tiles, avoiding the overheated and buzzing light fixtures, and unstuck his oversized feet so that they dangled freely. "A little help?" 

Kurt gripped him just above his knees, so Todd trustingly let his weight drop and found himself cradled in sturdy arms. He wrapped his bendy arms around Kurt's neck and beamed happily into his face. 

"Aw, my hero." he crooned, and poked Kurt's cheek, batting his eyelashes coquettishly. "Hey. Hey Nightcreepster. Why are toads so happy? 'Cause they _eat everything that bugs them!!_ " 

He laughed uproariously at his own joke and, when Kurt only arched an eyebrow, he wheezed, "Okay, so I might be a _little_ high from paint fumes." He held his thumb and index finger an inch apart to show just how little. "But it's for a good cause, so it doesn't count!" 

Kurt rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he gently set Todd back onto his feet. "Like you need an excuse to make awful puns." 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let's blow this popsicle stand, daddy-o; my work here is done." 

"Almost," Kurt said, watching him shove his flat webbed feet into his sneakers. "Look on the toilet roll in the second stall." 

"Hm?" Todd obligingly peeked into the stall. He almost didn't see what Kurt was talking about until he came around to face it from next to the toilet. Sure enough, a bold, red swastika marred the plastic, wall-mounted dispenser. 

"Oh," he said, and frowned at the distasteful design. "That ain't good. Fetch me my supplies, nurse!" 

Kurt grabbed the bag from the sink and unzipped it, rummaging inside. Todd held out a hand. "Scalpel?" 

Kurt smacked an indigo-blue Sharpie into his palm. 

They worked in tandem for a few minutes until a bright bouquet of funky stylized flowers obliterated the hateful symbol in its entirety. As a finishing touch, Todd broke open an almost-empty gel pen and brushed a dab of sparkle into the center of each flower with his pinky. "Better?" 

Kurt smiled in satisfaction at the tiny piece of positive rebellion. "I like it. It looks good, doctor." 

"Art is punk-rock, yo." 

"I hate that kind of bullying. It's like saying 'you're not safe anywhere, not even in the bathroom.'" 

"Now you get it, Nightcreepster." Todd glanced at the clock above the hand-dryers. "And sixth period is almost over. You should probably get to class before you get in trouble." 

They walked into the near-empty hallway together, gulping appreciatively at the fresh air as they strolled past the choir room and then the band room before entering the large theater where most school functions were hosted. 

Todd ran his fingertips along the velvety seats, wondering dimly if Kurt's hands would be so soft and fuzzy. He almost missed the moment Kurt turned to look at him, warmly illuminated by soft theater lights. Through his disguise, Kurt's 'brown' eyes glowed pure gold, elapine and Other. Todd's drawing hand twitched, wishing for a packet of colored pencils to try and recreate the impossible color. 

"After school, do you want to come over and hang out until it's time for training? Scott said he doesn't mind giving you a ride." 

Kurt tried to play the question off casually, but his tells were still there in the flutter of his hand, the way he bit on the corner of his lip with teeth just a little too sharp to be human. Todd was perceptive enough at reading faces to know that Kurt really, _really_ wanted him to say yes. He opened his mouth to do just that- then hesitated. 

Right after school every Friday, Fred read to children at the public library. It had started off as a court-mandated public service - punishment for property damage- but he'd continued long after the sentence ended because he genuinely enjoyed it. He liked kids, he liked performing, and he was a natural showman. Babies and mothers alike adored him. Aside from his skills in the kitchen, it was the aspect of his life in which he most shined. 

It was an unspoken agreement that Lance would drive him to these library readings, and Todd would accompany him. He wouldn't exactly be breaking a promise if he didn't go, as no such promise had ever been made, but Fred would be expecting him nonetheless. 

Guilt squirmed low in his gut, but he pushed it aside. He didn't get that many opportunities to hang out with Kurt, and the possibility made his heart leap eagerly in his lily-pad chest. He shot Kurt the double finger-guns and grinned widely. 

"Yeah, man; I'll be there. You, me, and baby makes three. Tell ole Goggle-Face not to leave without me!" 

* * *

Fred was in a pretty good mood as he left the school and made his way to the parking lot, thumbs hooked in the pockets of the puffy purple coat Pietro had made him for his birthday present. Fridays were good days. First thing after school was the library, and then training at the X-Mansion. While strenuous and exhausting, it was kind of fun, too, and there was always a lot of high-protein food available after the hours of vigorous exercise.

He felt his mood begin to flag when, calling his name, Lance caught up to him in the doorway and rested a hand on his arm. "Hey, buddy," Lance said, and there was an apologetic kindness to his dark eyes that brought Fred on edge. _Uh-oh..._

"Todd's going home with the X-brats today, so it looks like it's just me and you," Lance explained. Then, cringing a little at the hurt this sparked in the larger boy's eyes, he hurried on- "But it's cool! Logan gave me some extra cash this morning; wanna swing by McD's first and grab a sundae?" 

Fred sighed, shook his head. He'd really been looking forward to today. Today's story was 'The Three Billy Goats Gruff' and he'd practiced his troll's voice all weekend, imagining Todd in a pair of horns 'trip-trapping' over the bridge while the wide-eyed kids listened, breathless... 

It was not to be. 

"It's okay, Lance," he said, and tried to smile. Fred was never any good at faking emotions, though, and Lance did not look convinced. He jingled the jeep's keys in hand, clearly trying to think of what to say to make it better. Fred beat him to it. 

"I think I'll just take the bus," he said. "I wanna be by myself." 

Lance's frown increased. He was such a big brother, even if he didn't think of himself as such. Fred loved him for it, but... 

"Don't you want to go watch Pietro's rehearsal?" Fred hedged. Lance had mentioned the night before of offering his services as stage-crew. Fred knew he just really wanted to spend more time with Pietro. 

"You sure...?" Lance asked hesitantly, and Fred nodded. He was too gloomy for company now; his good mood completely ruined. Having to act upbeat while Lance saw right through him wouldn't make him feel any better. 

"Alright, then." Lance didn't look entirely happy with it, but he patted Fred's arm just the same. "I'll come get you at five-thirty?" 

"Okay." Fred's mind was already a million miles away. He had to walk briskly if he wanted to catch the three o'clock bus beside to the gas station. He considered not going at all- it wasn't as though it were a requirement- but the thought of Marianne the pink-haired librarian's face creasing in disappointment spurred him on. Todd or no Todd, the show must go on! 

His grumpiness was alleviated when he noticed the way the sun glinted off the heaped piles of snow, casting tiny rainbows in the crystals. _Pretty._ Winter wasn't his favorite time of year, though it used to be. It was a culmination of the best holidays and his birthday all bunched together. Nowadays, though... 

_"Moo..."_

He almost missed the tiny sound over the _shff-shff_ of his jacket's material and the crunch of boots on ice, but it stilled him nonetheless. _Hmm?_

He backtracked on the pavement squares as cars lazily passed him by, tilted his head, and listened intently. 

There was a long moment of silence before it came again, just underneath his feet, fainter than ever. A most distressed little _"moo."_

It sounded like it could have been a baby's coo, but farm-raised Fred knew better. 

He knelt in the bike lane, grateful for the snow-pants underneath his corduroys keeping his knees dry, and peered into the storm-drain. 

There had been some rain during school that day, most of which had now frozen into a hard, icy slush. The drain was clogged by dead leaves, and he had to squint his eyes to see into the dark before a pair of crystal-blue eyes peeped nervously out at him. "Moo!" 

"Well hey there," he said uncertainly. He wondered what to do. His hands were quite large; to shove one into the drain might dislodge the leaves and send the poor little prisoner down into an almost-certain drowning. But to leave it alone would mean letting it freeze to death, and fast. "You musta gotten washed away. Hang on a sec," he assured the bony, shaking thing, and went in search of a long stick. 

It took some doing- and a lot of distressed "moo"s, and cars slowing as drivers gawked at the huge, mohawked teenager digging around in a drain- but he managed to lure the sodden, shivering lump to the surface and wrap his hands securely around it with the utmost gentleness. Though it was clearly terrified and none-too-pleased with him, it was simply too weak to claw or bite or do much of anything aside from tremble. 

He gave the cat an efficient once-over, peeling leaves from its muddy, matted-down fur. A tomcat, he was sure; just past the cute-kitten stage and entering into an ornery adolescence. 

"Well bless your heart," he said sympathetically. He knew the odds of its survival were slim based on how limp it lay in his hands. Still- "You don't gotta be alone, Little Moo," he promised, and unsnapped the buttons of his new jacket, tucking the creature inside against his heart. "I gotcha, buddy; I gotcha." 

There was only the faintest of "moo"s in response as he stood and, folding an arm under the new lump on his chest, briskly walked into the gas station. He had work to do before he arrived at the library; that much was certain. 

* * *

Entering 'Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters' through the front doors like an actual, invited guest without so much as looking around for an alternate entrance would never stop feeling strange to Pietro.

Even weirder were the adults acting like this was all perfectly normal. Hank, he could accept- the man had practically demanded his old job back from Principal Kelley so that he could act as some overseeing, dignity-martyring Patron Saint of Teenage Mutants on the campus. But Ororo? 

"Good evening, Pietro," she greeted in the entryway, unflappable and serene as always, when he let himself in and shucked off his snow-boots. He'd run here from the school after a few breathless kisses stolen from Lance in the backseat of the Jeep, and the enjoyable groans that resulted when the older boy had to stop him from climbing onto his lap- ( _"Tro. Tro, seriously, I gotta go pick Fred up..."_ )- and in winter, his top-speeds always left some muddy residue. 

"Hey, Ro-" he began, somewhat on autopilot, and then hurriedly corrected: "Hi, _Ms. Munroe._ " Calling Evan's stately aunt 'Ro' was something he hadn't done in a long time, not since the friendship between the two young mutants had soured into a bitter rivalry. "How are things?" 

"Not too bad." She always looked a million miles away when she addressed him and, when she walked alongside him down the ornate hallways, he caught a breath of the fresh-rain scent that always clung to the weather witch's skin. It made him feel nostalgic and a little lonesome. 

"I have an interesting training program planned for you all today." 

"I can't wait," he said, and tried not to sound too sarcastic. Since it was Ororo talking, they'd probably be battling in some lava-hot pit. 

Eager to get away from the awkward conversation, he bid his temporary goodbyes and slipped into an empty room to change into his training/battle uniform. He'd lately had the funds and resources to modify it, and now it was sleeker and more streamlined than ever with thick leather strategically reinforced along crucial points to protect him from friction should he fall. And, though it wasn't much, he _had_ gained some muscle mass since Logan moved in. He'd had to accommodate for that, too. 

He folded his street-clothes and shoved them into his backpack, then carried the bag upstairs to Evan's bedroom. His former friend need never know that this was where he stored his belongings while at the mansion. It just felt safer hiding it amongst the mess there than it would in an easily-cracked locker. 

Being in Evan's cramped, cluttered, neon-eyesore of a room as he crammed his bag into the back of the closet increased the homesick feeling that Ororo's presence had whispered all the way into a near-shout. _Damn_ , but he was being a sap today. What had brought this along?! 

Forcing the closet door shut over all the clothes bunched on the floor revealed a _Festering Boils_ poster bone-spiked through the wood. He snorted- Evan had truly shitty taste in music- but couldn't help but smile a little, too. 

He remembered listening to that band's first album together, shoulder-to-shoulder with the other boy, trying to force a single pair of headphones around both of them because Evan's parents would have freaked out at the foul language had they blasted it on his stereo. 

His left ear suddenly buzzed and, with a sharp spike of panic in his chest, Pietro clapped a hand down on it, eyes wide, pupils shrinking to tiny pinpricks, lips pressed into a thin, white line. _No, not now- not..._

It wasn't real. It rarely was. The phantom illusions his mind projected whenever he wore the metal earring were disturbing in their realism, always leaving him sick to his stomach... But they were a haunting of his own creation. It was his mind's way of forcing him to retract his softness, and he'd certainly been thinking softly just now. 

"Keep it together," he muttered to himself, leaning his forehead against the door. "Remember who you are." 

"They say that talking to yourself is fine," a familiar voice spoke, conversationally, just above his head. "It's when you start answering back that you should be worried." 

Pietro clamped his teeth down on a shriek, legs speeding backwards until he was standing on Evan's bed, back to the wall, glancing around frantically for the speaker. 

Clinging to the pockmarked ceiling of Evan's room, Todd- with Kurt wrapped around him piggyback-style- grinned ghoulishly down at him. "Surprise?" 

"How long have you been _up_ there?!" Pietro demanded, white-hot _furious_ at having been caught so off-guard. The urge to punch Todd was a strong one, flooding his chest and arms with heat. 

"A while," Kurt admitted sheepishly, long tail dangling within grabbing distance. "We were just crawling around, and then you came in-" 

Pietro stepped off the bed and breezed from the room without bothering to hear the rest of what the little creeps had to say for themselves, fuming hotly. If Ororo demanded he carry either of them at any point during tonight's training, he made a mental note to drop them as soon and as often as possible. 

He made his irritable way into the inactivated Danger Room, domelike in its enormity, where several mutants had already gathered, stretching and warming up on their own. Spotting Kitty in a corner, he approached and tried a charming smile as he leaned over her, hand braced on the wall by her head. Most girls melted under such a look, but she remained unimpressed (it was possible that his frequent targeting her in fights might have killed any warm feelings she would otherwise have harbored. Maybe.) 

She quirked her head, waiting for him to speak, so he cut to the chase. "Don't be surprised if you get invited to dinner on Sunday," he warned. She was the only other Jew in this town that he knew of, and he suspected Logan could say the same. "It's gonna be awkward, so have an excuse ready for saying no." 

The first day of Hanukah began in two days and, though nobody had said anything about it, a silver Menorah and eight tapered blue candles had arrived after Logan's latest shopping trip. They lurked ominously on the hallway mantel below the towel cupboards Logan had recently built. 

She recovered quickly from his trademark bluntness and planted a hand on her hip. "Actually," she said with a touch of smugness on her small, heart-shaped face; valley girl intonation in full annoying flux. "He already has. _And_ I said yes. So put on your best ugly sweater and get ready for some awkwardness, speedy-boy." 

Pietro groaned and canted his head, resting his forehead on the wall as he pressed his tired eyes closed. "Whyyyy," he complained out loud. "I haven't celebrated _any_ holidays since I was a kid. Why does he have to try so hard?!" 

"Um," she sarcastically pretended to think his question over, tapping a pink-painted fingernail to her chin. "Maybe because he cares about you and wants to make you happy? Just a thought." 

She was probably right, and that was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? This fucking guy was the real deal, despite all logic. It would have been easier if he had some angle in this, if he _wanted_ something for his efforts. Pietro knew how to deal with people who wanted things from him much better than he could handle genuine, unnecessary, foolhearted kindness. 

_"I love you,"_ Logan had told Lance the day of his last migraine. And Pietro, somehow, believed it and all the terrifying implications it carried. Because if Logan loved _Lance,_ then how long would it be before his feelings spread to the rest of them? 

"It's so embarrassing," he sighed, defeated, and Kitty laughed. 

"All parents are." She patted his arm in a conciliatory fashion. "That's how we know they love us." 

He froze, but her attention was diverted by the arrival of more kids into the Danger Room- Evan with his skateboard; Jean in her soccer uniform, knotting her hair into a tight bun; Lance and Fred, still in their winter jackets. The latter two waved at him before heading towards the locker/shower room in the back to change. He waved back, but his mind was a thousand miles away. 

Pietro already had a family, thank you very much, and he really, _really_ didn't need any more. He had a mother- he couldn't remember very much of her, but there was enough of her smile, her laugh, muddled deeply enough into his oldest recollections to leave a lasting impression. He had a sister, though he doubted very much he'd ever see her again- and feared that one day he _might_. He could still feel her presence sometimes, like an amputated limb that never stopped aching. And, of course, he had a father... 

"Earth to Maxinerd," Kitty chirruped, looking up at him with a frown wrinkling between her dark brows. "You doing okay?" 

"Huh...? Oh. Yeah. Just a little out of it." He stepped back to let her pass, not wanting her to phase through him- that was always a tingly, uncomfortable sensation- and watched her high ponytail bounce cheerfully as she bopped over to the group just as three new figures arrived: Ororo, a cat's smile curling her lips as she looked back and forth between Hank and - _think of the devil and he shall appear_ \- Logan himself, all dressed for training. 

_Parents. It's what_ parents _do._

Damn him... Damn it all. 

The adults waited as the youth finished their warm-ups, chatting amongst themselves, and then the program began. Ororo retreated to the room's controls. There were grumbled complaints as Logan brusquely separated them into two teams- Pietro was pretty sure he deliberately paired people who were on the outs or didn't work well together. 

Only a fraction of his hyperactive, ever-whirring mind was on the instructions and explanations given, so he was caught off-guard when the sheer armadillo-plated walls of the room shifted and mechanically expanded, and suddenly they were no longer in an enormous room, but high on a snowy mountaintop. 

He felt the ground shift under his feet, mimicking uneven, rocky terrain- and the air-conditioning kicked on full-blast until they were all shivering and exhaling visible white clouds. (He saw Lance shoot an uneasy glance at Todd; when the amphibious mutant became too cold, he sometimes passed out.) 

And then, because this was Xavier Mansion, that was when the robots attacked. 

"Fuck!" Pietro dove backwards from a massive, stomping foot and found himself rolling downhill until he regained his feet and scrambled away. There were two of them with ridiculous buzz-saw arms swiping for the kids, who leapt and scrambled for purchase. Jean Grey stood in the center of it all, hands to her temples as she focused her energy on stalling the first while Evan and Scott worked together disabling it as quickly as possible. 

Pietro's natural instinct, when confronted by any threat, was to run. He'd been chastised for this survival instinct multiple times in these training sessions- ("You're a _team player_ now, Pietro!")- so he grit his teeth and firmly reminded himself that this was only a drill; that he was (probably) not about to die on Logan's watch. 

"Tro!" was all the warning he got before Fred, who had actually listened to the instructions, caught him around the waist and flung him upwards, spinning end-over-end. It was a perfectly-aimed throw; he landed on his feet on the metal juncture that served as the bot's "shoulder." 

"Okay," he muttered to himself, scaling the thing as it crashed its colossal, destructive path towards the huddling group of X-Men. He saw Logan below, shielding his eyes as he peered up at his student. The man had the gall to _wave_ cheekily. 

The robot, an unpiloted mech, didn't have any sort of control panel on its smooth metal surface, and Pietro wasn't strong enough to kick his way inside the thing. He needed someone. He needed... 

"Pryde!" he bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. Fred, listening from below, nodded and went in search of the petite girl. 

The robot reached a buzz-saw arm for the intruder on its back and, diving out of the way, Pietro suddenly understood his purpose; why Fred had tossed him up here to begin with. He could have slapped himself. He waited for the last possible nano-second before darting out of the way and covered his ears at the unbearable whining sound of metal piercing metal; if he could keep this going long enough, maybe he could make the thing destroy itself. 

He dodged a second time but nearly missed the thing's third arm reaching for him from behind. A small hand closed around his ankle, and the saw buzzed through his phased form, tingling like a limb fallen asleep. He whipped his head around and saw Kitty and Kurt, clutching each other for balance, having just teleported to him in the nick of time. Pietro only had a split second to feel odd about being indebted to an X-Men before the two of them were on him, a hand on either of his shoulders pushing him into the mech. 

After that, finding the control panel and switching it off was a snap. He gave Kitty's gloved hand a squeeze to let her know that the task was completed and, a second later, found the three of them teleported back to ground level just as the monstrous object collapsed and began to topple. He had only a moment to feel some smug satisfaction at a job well done before he saw exactly _what_ the thing was about to fall on: 

Lance. 

Specifically, Lance trying to maneuver his way over the uneven ground with a limp Todd in his arms. The extreme cold had gotten to him at last. 

There wasn't time to think, to consider that this was all just a practice exercise; that the danger they faced was liminal. All logic had fled and what remained was stark panic instead. He dove for the two Brotherhood boys, leaping onto Lance's back and knocking him to the ground just as the mech fell with a thunderous crash, realistic sparks flying. He gripped Lance's arms as he rolled them end over end into the opposite wall, Todd caught between them. 

Lance gasped, winded, and then peered in astonishment up at Pietro's face. Surprise faded into understanding as his brain caught up with what had happened and then- _oh no_ \- his eyes did the Thing; the velvety _soft_ melted chocolate warmth that Pietro was never prepared for, no matter how often it happened. 

"Hey-- you saved me," he said, voice raspy, bow-shaped mouth quirking under his helmet in that little side-smirk he wore so well. Something in Pietro's chest fluttered small wings like a caged dove. The absolutely asinine urge to raise his helmet visor and see if his bluing lips were as soft as they looked rose, unbidden. 

Pietro scowled and sat up, extracting himself from the tangle of the Avalanche's long limbs, annoyed with himself for being thrown such a fastball in a high-adrenalin situation and falling for it despite knowing better. Twin puffs of white steam blasted from his nostrils like a dragon's huff. 

"Maybe if you weren't such an idiot and actually paid attention to your surroundings in a fight, I wouldn't have to," he snapped, teeth chattering, and then felt a pang of guilt when his harshness immediately erased Lance's smile. Feeling guilty then chain-spawned some sharp anger- why should _he_ have to feel guilty for telling it like it was?!- and it just spiraled outwards. 

Lance Alvers always made him feel _too much_ of everything. 

There was an echo of that phantom buzz in his ear, and then the accompanying nausea it always brought. He rubbed at it with a knuckle as he turned his back on Lance. The entire exchange had taken less than twenty seconds, tops, but he glanced around anyway to be sure nobody else had noticed as Lance sat up, still cradling Todd and attempting to warm him. 

The X-Men made quick work of the second mech, and then the lights went back on; the floor leveled out; the snowy scene transformed to plain, blank walls. Everyone sighed appreciatively as the heat came back on. 

"Alright!" Logan applauded, voice magnified by a clip-on microphone. "Everyone okay? Lets talk shop. What did we learn, what worked, what didn't, and what do we need to do to improve next time?" 

Pietro was too much a mix of emotions to handle earnest suggestions of 'installing thermal control into the Brotherhood's suits' and 'more practice on uneven terrain.' When nobody was looking at him, he turned on his heel and left the Danger Room. 

It didn't matter that it felt good to use his powers to their fullest capacity, or that he really was learning a lot by training with other mutants. It didn't even matter that the challenges, puzzles, and critical thinking this aspect of his life offered his brain made it easier to sleep at night. All he could hear, echoing in his head, was his father's disparaging voice: _'Weak. Useless. Pathetic.'_

* * *

Logan kept an arm around Todd's shoulders as he maneuvered him into one of the mansion's guest bathrooms. "You sure you're gonna be okay, bub?" he asked nervously. "Want me to wait out here and check up on ya?" 

Todd, still wobbly, shook his head. Logan's guilt tripled for a moment- he knew Todd was susceptible to cold, and yet it had still slipped his mind when making today's lesson plans with Ororo. The poor toad had had to sit out of the rest of training with the younger mutants keeping an eye on him. 

Then Todd smiled, tired but sincere. "Hey, toads are tougher than you think, yo," he pointed out. "Some species can survive being completely frozen for months." 

Logan had to smile back. "Well, you're one tough toad, that's for sure." 

Todd grinned cheekily and went to sit on the edge of the ornate, claw-footed bathtub, stoppered it, and twisted the taps until the right temperature of water filled it. They, with the help of Hanks knowledge of chemistry and biology, had recently surmised a theory for Todd's aversion to bathing. It dried his skin out horribly, and left him feeling "dry, itchy, and tight." This skin irritation then proceeded to produce more mucus than he otherwise might- a protective agent- which left Todd smelling rather... _well._

_"In other words,"_ Hank had explained to Logan and Todd, showing them Todd's skin-cell and mucosa samples under a slide projector. _"His skin is incredibly sensitive and absorbent. Things like soaps and shampoos will dry him out. That's why showers and even clean laundry hurt you so much, Todd. His mucus tries to protect him from further damage. It's an incredible mutation, really... But you're likely also incredibly dehydrated most of the time, since you constantly breathe and lose moisture through your skin."_

They'd used this knowledge to practical effect by installing water softeners and purchasing high-end specialty shampoos intended for burn victims, as well as a prescription-strength eczema cream and anti-allergenic laundry soap. Suddenly, Todd was looking, smelling, and, more importantly, _feeling_ better than he had in years... 

... And now he couldn't seem to get enough of his baths, hogging the bathroom for hours at a time despite all Brotherhood complaints and threats. 

"Don't be in there all night, now," Logan warned. "Come out and eat some dinner when you feel better." 

Todd snapped a cheeky salute, attention still on the running water. "Sure thing, pops." 

Logan startled a little, then gently shut the door between them so Todd wouldn't catch a glimpse of his startled, touched smile. In his chest, his heart gave a funny sort of squeeze. _Oh..._

His smile had spread uncontrollably, eclipsing his face, when he heard Hank's distinctive footfall pattern approaching. 

"You look happy," Hank remarked, cocking his head when he was close enough to see Logan's face in the dim hallway. 

"Do I?" Logan asked, turning to face his tall, bulky friend. His cheeks hurt from smiling. 

"Yes." Hank considered, then admitted, "Happiness looks nice on you." Before Logan could process this, he added, "And I've asked Charles if he'd agree to meeting with us while the kids have some dinner." 

"Sounds good," Logan agreed, sobering a little. Hank must have sensed his nervousness at the prospect, because he shifted and pressed an arm to Logan's. 

"It's okay. I'll be there too." 

Logan wanted to crack a joke at that- he wasn't a kid; he was actually significantly older than Hank- but the truth was that he _did_ feel better knowing he wasn't alone in this line of questioning. 

It'd never before occurred to him that he might someday need to be afraid of Charles. It wasn't a good feeling. He allowed himself to lean on Hank for just a moment, both physically and mentally. 

He heard the freshly-showered kids on the floor below laughing and talking as they grabbed dinner, buffet-style, in the kitchen, while he and Hank walked the long hallways towards a small corner meeting-room. 

As promised, Charles waited inside by a small fire in the grate, reading a lengthy book that he held on his lap with his small scholar's hands, forever ink-stained. A tray of fresh-cut fruits, breads, and cheeses awaited them as well as a bottle of red wine, left uncorked to breathe. He looked up with intelligent dark eyes as the two let themselves in. 

"Ah, Logan," Charles greeted, closing his book and setting it on the side-table with the beaded Tiffany lamp. "I was wondering when you would come see me." 

Logan could have pointed out that he'd been in the mansion for hours already, but there was no point; Charles knew this already. Instead he sat on the two-seater sofa, hoping Hank would sit beside him. (He did.) "Hey, Chuck. I missed your face." 

He had, too. He missed his friend. He missed their quiet mornings together, that closeness they shared stemming from decades of trust. Somehow, being in the same room together no longer had the same cohesive, united feeling it once had. 

"Did you." Charles motioned towards the wine, and Hank reached for it, elegantly pouring glassfuls. It was an old vintage, smelling of fruit and oak and chocolate. Wine wasn't Logan's beverage of choice, but he took the glass Hank handed him anyway. The warmth of its spices did nothing to drown the chill in the room. Hank shifting imperceptibly closer helped a little, though. "Well, what is it you wanted to speak about, Logan?" 

_I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the enemy now. It hurts._ One had to be careful with their thoughts around Charles- it was impossible to tell whether or not he was listening. Logan regretted that he'd let that one slip through. 

"I-" Logan opened and closed his mouth, sighed, then reached into his coat for the paperwork he'd collected over time. "I want to talk about Wanda." He clarified after a beat of silence, "Maximoff," though he was fairly sure Charles knew exactly who he meant. "She's being held at an asylum for-" 

"I know why she's being held there. It's in everyone's best interest that she remains as such." 

She was dangerous; deadly; potentially catastrophic. Of that, Logan was certain. He'd read her reports, felt a shiver overcome him as the magnitude of her powers became clear to him. Still- 

"I don't think she's safe there," he said, making his point quickly and simply. "I feel like Magneto's planning something. Just a month or so ago, Sabertooth mentioned he was checking in on her-"

"Did he. And you didn't feel the need to inform me of this?" 

A sharp pang of guilt. He really should have, but he'd just been so caught up in everything else going on- "I'm telling you now. I think, since you're in touch with her and all, we should think about at least moving her-" 

"Yes," Charles interrupted drily. "I'm sure that won't draw her father's attention or ire at all." 

"I think her being in her father's care at all is part of the problem. I don't think he should have any custody of any children, ever." 

Charles shook his head, sighed deeply like Logan was the saddest of simpletons. "You are severely underestimating Erik, Logan; you've been playing with fire ever since you took his son in, and I'm certain there will be repercussions for that sooner rather than later. Do you really want to make it worse?" 

Logan glanced at Hank for support, but found that the tall mutant was leaning towards Charles' side of the argument. Logan tried to cool his hot head, to think what he was being told over, but it was difficult; he was such a being of instinct, even after all these decades. His instinct didn't like what Charles was telling him, plain and simple. 

"I think..." he tried slowly, trying to put his words together coherently. "That we should try and give her as normal a life as possible, shouldn't we? Her father locking her away ain't doing her any favors. And isolating her from her brother? I know Pietro still loves her, Chuck; I _know_ it. Why keep this going just because some metal-headed bully said to?! At least allow me to meet her..." 

"I admire your idealism, old friend. But you've been around the sun too many times to be so naïve. By virtue of being born with the X-gene, none of the 'kids', as you word it, have a chance for the childhood you want for them. We provide the joy and luxuries that we can, but the best hope they can have in life is to be a soldier in the ongoing war for mutant-human equality." 

Logan resented this reinforced pedantry, arguing back stubbornly, "She's not a soldier; I keep telling you. She's a child." 

"She's an out-of-control menace. I've tried reaching her. I've _been_ trying for years. It's impossible. She's a rabid dog with the power to destroy the world." 

This stung in ways Logan hadn't anticipated. He stared into his wine, swirling it in his glass. Hank glanced, frowning, at his face. _What do people do to rabid dogs? Why, they put them down, of course._

"You never said that about me," Logan said finally. "I was... you know. When you found me." 

_Feral. Dangerous. A menace in his own right, without a shred of kindness or empathy in his being. The ultimate, perfect weapon._

Immediately, Charles' demeanor shifted. "Oh, no Logan..." he protested, the harshness on his face softening to something akin to regret. "No, you were nothing like her. I could reach you. I knew there was good still in you. Something worth rescuing." 

Was this kid really that bad? From what Logan had read, it sounded like she was a kid in a shitty family situation with intense powers. That could pretty aptly describe most of the kids in their care. 

"Name one kid of ours who isn't dangerous, Chuck," Logan pointed out, anger heating his voice into a low growl. "What makes them 'worth it'? Is it how well you, personally, can control them? At what point do they stop mattering in your eyes? Because I'm telling you right now, I've left a bigger trail of bodies than she ever has." 

"But you're-" Charles clamped his lips shut over the final word. Logan was no mind-reader, but a cold stone dropping into the pit of his stomach whispered that the next word to come out of the man's mouth would have been _'mine'._

Logan cleared his throat, looked down at his hands clasped between his knees. God, this _hurt._ The worst of it was that he'd known all along, had spent so many years of his life pretending he didn't. "Chuck," he said softly, after a long silence. "I'm-- I'm going to put in my resignation now. I don't... I can't. Take me off your payroll, please." 

"Logan-!" The panicked look of loss in Charles' eyes was just another hurt on top of many. Hank was still and silent as stone. 

"Friends don't own friends, old man. Thank you for everything you've done for me, but-" 

"I'll do it, Logan. I'll bring you to see her. I'll help. What... whatever it is you're asking for, I'll make it happen, but please..." 

Hearing him scramble like this hurt, too. He felt Charles in his thoughts, digging around, poking for weakness, for a lack of solidity to his resolution. "The kids, Logan. How will you support your... boys... on your own? Think of their wellbeing. Someone with your past could never find a job good enough to-" 

"Charles!" Hank broke in, staring at his boss in disturbed consternation. But it was too late; Charles had found and leapt upon Logan's weakest spot, and it was devastatingly effective. Logan knew he could work manual labor and informally educational jobs, but nothing that would provide the funding or insurance or support needed to keep his little family afloat. Those with the money and social standing had all the power. 

Charles had the money. Magneto also had the money. And so they could buy whomever they needed to. Even Logan, it seemed, had a price; much as it killed him to admit. And he'd just been bought. 

Charles, seeing that he had won the brief confrontation, sat back with a sigh, rubbing at his temples. "Don't scare me like that, Logan." 

Logan said nothing. 

Hank looked back and forth between the dueling friends, witnessing the moment as an old friendship crumbled into reluctant obedience, and sighed, sitting back in defeat. There was nothing he could say. Logan, finding he couldn't look at Charles anymore, said only- "So... You'll take me to see her?" 

Charles, choosing to ignore Logan's flat tone, chuckled brightly as he poured himself a second glass of wine. "Wanda Maximoff? Certainly. Though I can assure you, she is not at all worth the effort; she's just a helpless cause. I've tried my hardest over the years, but practically speaking, I don't know how much longer she can be permitted to live. If it weren't for her father-" 

A noise in the doorway caught the attention of all three men. In the heat of the moment, with the smells of the wine and the fire and his own rising self-hatred, Logan had missed entirely the moment the door cracked open. Pietro, hair still damp from the shower and dressed again in his street clothes, stared at them all with huge eyes. With such a shocked, pained expression on his normally sour face, he abruptly looked much younger than his sixteen years. 

"Pietro," Charles began, looking just as caught off-guard as Logan felt. "I'm-" 

"Don't even bother," Pietro said in a clipped voice that dripped with pure acid. In a blur of silver motion, he was inside the room and gripping Charles by the front of his neat button-down shirt. He stared into the older man's eyes as he slammed his fist, hard, into his nose, causing the stink of blood to burst in the air. "Just go to hell."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm sure there'll be no consequences for ole' Silver-Bells whatsoever.  
> -Todd is ninety-one pounds of bad taste and questionable life decisions. (God, I love him.)  
> \- Hey, after the Kurt/Tabby episode we can probably assume the fuzzy elf likes them a _little_ bad.  
>  \- Art-punk Todd would not have happened if it weren't for [[Whattheficery](http://whattheficery.tumblr.com)] and [[Nemhaine42](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemhaine42/pseuds/Nemhaine42)] ~~enabling me~~ _encouraging it_ and supplying fresh ideas.  
>  \- This might be the last chapter for a couple weeks because. Surgery. And struggling to keep up with my job after said surgery. (Shakes fist) Damn you, corporate America. In the meantime... have you read these fucking hilarious Evo [[episode recaps?](http://www.xplainthexmen.com/category/blog-posts/recaps/evolution/)] I got in trouble at work for laughing too hard at them.


	11. Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mistletoe to excess can be such a cockblocker.

Pietro's big anatomy project before semester's end- a monstrous replication of a human heart made of paper mache and mounted on a posterboard- took up an entire seat of its own. As the smallest of the Brotherhood boys, Pietro and Todd were squished together in the front passenger's seat.

"You're so bony, Silver-Bells!" Todd complained, feeling Pietro's hipbone spear into his side. Pietro ignored him. "Why couldn't I have just sat in Fred's lap again?!" 

"Because Logan said you have to wear a seatbelt," Lance snapped, backing them out of the driveway. "Now stop complaining." 

He was always cranky in the mornings; it took two full mugs of coffee before he was halfway tolerable. Todd glared pointedly at his thermos until, rolling his eyes, Lance took a noisy gulp. 

Fred, a tiny smile in place, leaned forward meaningfully with index finger aimed at the radio. 

"Noooo," Pietro groaned, covering his face wearily. "It's nothing but Christmas music this time of year." 

"I _like_ Christmas music," Fred declared primly, and pushed the button anyway. His smile grew as Judy Garland's 'Winter Wonderland' emanated from the crackly speakers. 

"A beautiful sight, be happy tonight..." sang Fred. His singing voice was surprisingly nice. It was clear he'd had some past vocal instruction. 

Pietro groaned a second time, pouting childishly, and dropped his head on Todd's shoulder in defeat. His pointy chin dug in rather painfully, but Todd didn't push him away. Pietro so rarely showed physical affection, and he’d been so moody lately... 

Fred sang along to 'Frosty the Snowman' and 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,' but balked when a guitar riff vibrated the limits of the speakers. "Oh, not _this_ one..." 

Lance perked up immediately and caught eyes with Todd. "Is it-" 

"Trans-Siberian Orchestra?!" Todd finished his sentence, feeling his own grin eclipse his entire face and make his cheeks ache. "Man, you _know_ it is!" 

The build-up was electric, and when the beat dropped, both boys began headbanging aggressively. 

"Eyes on the road!" Pietro hissed when the jeep’s progression swayed over-lane, and ducked out of the way of Todd's flailing air-guitar. This was the Lance that Todd loved best: the one that would get on the floor and roughhouse with him or challenge him at basket-racing along grocery store aisles. 

They squealed into the school's parking lot and continued jamming to the song, fists flailing. Todd's happiness was near-complete. 

"Carol of the _motherfucking Bells_!" Lance declared enthusiastically, pulling the keys from the ignition, slamming open the door, and pounding a conclusive drumroll onto the dashboard. "That song is audible cocaine!" 

"I grew four inches of chest hair!" bellowed Todd, crawling out over Pietro's unresisting, defeated lap. 

"My balls actually exploded!" hollered Lance, a manic glint to his smile. There was laughter from the convertible parked just next to them. 

"My condolences!" Scott Summers called, and Lance's smile fell even as his face burned tomato-red. He shot the car full of giggling X-Men the finger. 

"Maximoff!" Jean Grey’s voice rang from the passenger's seat, stepping daintily from the convertible, and Scott came round like a trained dog to help her into her coat. Pietro eyed her warily. He’d lost a lot of good will from the Xavier institute after punching their leader in the face and refusing to provide any explanation as to why. However, all she went on to say was "Hank said to meet him in the drama room." 

" _Now?!_ " Pietro whined, glancing dismally at the large model of the heart with all its fragile little labels stuck in with toothpicks. "I don't want to carry that thing around all day-" 

"I've got it." 

Lance came around the side of the jeep and unbuckled the project, lifting it gingerly with both arms like the world’s most macabre tray of snacks. "I'll leave it in the anatomy classroom with your teacher, no problem." 

A furrow formed between Pietro's silver brows. "No way!" He tried to pull it from Lance's gloved hands. "Give me back my heart! You'll drop it..." 

"I will _not_!" Lance protested, annoyance growing as his boots slipped on an icy patch and Fred had to grab him before he fell ass-first into a snowpile. "I won't break your goddamn heart, so would you just trust me for once?!" 

Pietro, doubts still visible in his pale eyes, reluctantly relented. " _Fine,_ I guess..." 

" _Thank_ you. Just remember to tell Hank that I’m serious about joining stagecrew. He keeps brushing me off... Tell him I'm good at woodworking _and_ welding." 

Todd, walking behind them, shot Fred a smirk. How on earth did those two think they were subtle at all? 

Fred smiled back, but it was the patient smile a tired parent might give an energetic child; nothing that should be exchanged between partners in crime. Todd froze. He knew he was overly sensitive to people's minute facial expressions and verbal tics- he'd had to become so, surviving on the streets for so long- but this... this wasn't how a Fred looked at a Todd. It just _wasn't!_

He reached for Fred's coat sleeve, gripping it like he intended to climb his shoulder (he wasn't really supposed to do that at school, but now that they'd been outed as mutants, he didn't see what harm it would do)- but refrained when Kurt hustled to his side. 

"Todd!" he grinned. 

As always, it took Todd a second to come to grips with Kurt's disguise module. His hypersensitive vision could tell it was _wrong_ the skin, too perfect: poreless, glossy. The expressions didn't always sync, leaving him with a distinctly uncanny-valley feel. 

"Hey, Nightcreepster," he greeted, falling into step next to Kurt but unwilling to let go of Fred's arm. This was made difficult when Fred lengthened his stride, trying to pull ahead. One look at his face told Todd everything he needed to know, what he'd already suspected for a while now. 

"Yo." He stopped in his tracks. Fred was forced to stop as well or drag his little buddy on the ice behind him. Thankfully, he chose the former, but he didn't look happy about it. 

"It's time for class," Fred pointed out, not looking at either of the boys next to him. 

"Shh. This is more important." Todd threw an arm around Kurt's waist, feeling his warm fuzz even if he couldn't see it. "I don't think I've ever introduced you two all proper-like." 

Kurt was puzzled. He cocked his head, looked up at Fred. "I know who Fred is, Todd..." he muttered, low, as though worried his friend had lost his marbles. 

"Yeah, but do you really? Nightcreepster, this is Freddie. He likes cooking and animals; he sings like an angel and he tells stories so well you'd think you were watching a movie. He always takes care of us when we get hurt. If it weren't for him, I probably wouldn't have stayed in Bayville at all- would have jumped ship the second things turned bad. Without him, I wouldn't have ever gained brothers or pops or... or any of the things in my life worth having. He's my anchor in a storm, yo." 

Fred gawked at him, clear-blue eyes huge, mouth dropped. His plush cheeks burned a salmon-pink in sudden shyness. "T-Todd..." he began. 

Distantly, they heard the first-period bell ring, loud and mechanical over the rapidly emptying parking lot. They ignored it. Kurt was looking at Fred in new light. 

Todd crashed on, bullheaded and determined. Yeah, it was embarrassing opening himself up like this... But his life was too full of schmucks who couldn't say their feelings aloud when sometimes they just _needed_ to do it. 

"Fredster, this is Kurt. He's kind of a badass. I'm pretty sure he was meant to be a Brotherhood boy but he just laughs at me whenever I say he should move in. He's hilarious and hella smart and can bend most of his joints backwards and eat an entire can of spray-cheese in one go- though usually not at the same time- which is obviously reason _alone_ to be his friend. He's-" 

Todd faltered. They were both looking at him now. Todd glanced at Kurt, then away again, feeling his face heat. He could have said things like, _when I look at him my tongue swells up and my heart beats like a fist pounding on a door,_ but... well. He didn't want to make the other mutant feel uncomfortable. 

Fred caught his eye, and then the younger boy's face slowly softened in understanding. Partners in crime once again, he clearly realized Todd's feelings. His shoulders sagged as he relaxed his tense posture, and then he turned to Kurt. 

"Just _one_ can of spray-cheese? I could do better than that in my sleep." 

Kurt blinked, then _grinned._ He puffed out his chest triumphantly as he bragged, "I once won a burger-eating competition and then asked for seconds." 

"Yeah, well..." 

They began walking towards the school again, leaving Todd to gaze ahead at them with a Cheshire smile illuminating his features. Despite the cold December breeze, he felt warm and content. 

* * *

"- so then he _looks_ at me and says, and I quote, _'please don't make me give my friend away, Logan,'_ with about the biggest, saddest eyes you've ever seen in your life. What was I supposed to say to _that_?! Stop laughing, Bigfoot, it's not funny." 

"It's kind of funny." 

Logan shot Hank a glare, but it was hard to stay angry for too long. The big guy, sitting on the end of Logan's bed as the shorter man dressed for the occasion, held the small gray cat and grinned with bright mischief. Fluffernutter, the little tyrant, was uncharacteristically still in his thick blue arms, allowing himself to be cradled without biting, clawing, or resisting in any way. 

"Don't let that act fool ya," Logan warned when the blue-eyed demon began to purr. "He's pure evil. Worse than Klaus on TBDEL." 

"Oh, now," Hank chastised. "You're not evil, are you?" he asked Fluffernutter, touching one of his paws. "With your clever white socks and your wee black ears?" 

The cat purred louder and pressed sweetly into Hank's chest. When he yawned, the tips of tiny white fangs were revealed- deceptively adorable despite Logan knowing full well their bite. _Unbelievable..._

"How do I look?" Logan asked when he finished laying the Velcro of his shoes, and turned. For this journey, he'd been instructed on what he could and could not wear. No buckles, no straps or laces or zippers. He wore his jacket over the thin, scrub-like material for warmth, but would be forced upon arrival to leave it in the car. 

"Mm..." Hank considered. "I prefer your normal look. I've grown fond of leather, flannel, and denim." 

"Really? I'm surprised, Mr. Elbow-patches-and-tweed." 

"Opposites attract, I suppose." Hank paused after a moment of embarrassed consideration. "Aesthetically speaking, of course." 

"Of course. Put el diablo back in Fred's room, willya? I don't trust him not to burn down the house while we're gone." 

"Yes; o dainty duck," Hank smiled, standing and leaving the room. From the hallway, he called, "Logan? Not to alarm you, but it appears as though your house has been entirely overwhelmed with plant growth." 

Logan groaned loudly as he fetched his shoulder-bag. "The mistletoe? That's all Todd's doing. Blame him." 

"Why am I not surprised?"

As Logan preceded Hank down the stairs, looking forlornly at the many light fixtures and doorways all adorned with hanging green leaves and maroon berries, he was struck with the magnitude of what was about to happen. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't nervous. This day had come sooner than he'd expected-- but at least Charles had made good on his word. 

He heard Hank gently close Fred's bedroom door and follow after him. Unlike Logan, there was no need for Hank to dress any differently. He'd taken the afternoon off work as moral support but would not be permitted inside the visiting room. Logan wished it were different, but he wasn't going to try to bend any rules just yet. 

He rounded a corner and was halted by Hank's hand clamping down on his shoulder. "We missed one," he warned, pointing upwards. Logan tilted his head to see a final sprig of mistletoe glinting ominously above the kitchen entryway- he'd almost been caught underneath it with Hank. 

"Oh!" Logan blinked. Was he really so out of it that he hadn't noticed? "Oh, erm. Whoops. Why don't you-" 

"No, no; you go first. It's your house," Hank tried to laugh, but was looking just as flustered as Logan felt. "Silly old tradition... I'll be right behind you. Ah- not too close, though..." 

For half a moment, Logan felt the oddest pang of disappointment. It passed as he stepped out into the mid-afternoon sunlight piercing through the cloudy December gloom and was greeted by the sight of an idling vehicle, sleek and black. The tinted drivers-side window lowered with a soft mechanical whirr and Ororo smiled pleasantly at them both. "Ready to go, boys?" 

Ready as they'd ever be.

Charles was in his modified front seat- they'd customized several of the mansion's cars so that he would not have to exit his wheelchair, but could instead roll himself into the car on a ramp and lock his wheels into place- and greeted them both. He was dressed similarly to Logan. 

Hank offered a returned hello. 

Logan did not. 

The silence was almost complete for many long minutes of smooth driving. Logan at last dared glance at Charles, wincing despite himself when he saw the yellowing of a faded bruise round his mouth. He hadn't really known how to respond to Pietro's lapse in control- punish him? For hitting the man who'd sincerely said that his twin sister would be better off dead... and might have the power to make that opinion a reality? 

Could he punish Pietro for doing exactly what he'd wanted to do himself? 

As though he'd heard this thought- he probably had- Charles chuffed quietly, and Logan had to look away again. 

Hank shifted until his knee pressed against Logan's, and the older man closed his eyes tightly and tried to steady himself from the contact. 

Mercifully, Ororo was the first to speak. 

"It's a long drive, you know," she said, a touch of exasperation in her voice. "And all this negative energy is making me very uncomfortable, so please dial it back. Hank, how was your morning?" 

Hank, very gratefully, launched into tales of unruly students and play rehearsals and sports practice. He kept such a tight schedule these days that it was a wonder he was willing to share his free time with Logan. Logan shot a grateful glance his way, and was met with a warm and understanding smile. 

Morale in the vehicle improved, though it was indeed a long journey: long enough to require a pit stop and refuel at a gas station. The thought of Charles making this trip monthly to see one girl both intrigued and worried Logan: if Charles had spent _so_ much time and effort with her over the years and still insisted that she was beyond help...

No, he wouldn't finish that thought. It felt like a betrayal to Pietro, and to the girl he'd yet to meet. 

"What can you tell me about her?" he asked, when they returned to the car to finish the last leg of their journey. 

Charles startled a bit at being addressed, at last, by the silent passenger. He recovered quickly and thought the question over. "Well, Wanda has a number of very advanced abilities, including reality warping and-" 

"Chuck. I'm not asking for her playing card info. I've done all that reading already. What can you tell me about _her_? Who is she? What does she like? What-" 

He trailed off at Charles' uncomfortable expression and scoffed disbelievingly. "You don't know? You can't tell me _anything_ about her other than that she's 'dangerous'?" 

"I don't even have to be in your mind to know what you're thinking, Logan," Charles sighed resignedly. "You think me cold and callous and refuse to accept the practicality of what I say. I won't be deceptive of my motives today: I'm hoping this trip will help you to see that this girl cannot be controlled and most certainly cannot ever have a life in society. It's not her fault that she's so dangerous, any more than it's the fault of the wildfire or the earthquake-" 

"Or the beast?" Logan furthered. "Or the storm? Or the wolverine? Yet you still hold us accountable for our actions." 

"Mental illness and extreme power do not mesh well, Logan!" Charles cut in irritably. "Either we learn control or we are put down! The only reason she still lives is because her father was wise and wealthy enough to put her away." 

"Stop it." Ororo's voice had gone quite flat. "Don't make Hank and I regret taking the time to accompany you."

There was nothing to do but sink into silence once again. When Logan closed his eyes, he could pretend that things were still normal. Ororo's floral perfume, Charles' aftershave, Hank's tea-tree shampoo, as well as the distinct and familiar sounds of their breathing, had long ago become imprinted in his mind as safety, protection, and love. In essence, _family._ He didn't want to lose them, not even now that everything in his life had turned upside-down. 

A furred wrist touched his. Odd. But not unwelcome. He shifted his hand so that it pressed on top of Hank's, holding it to his knee. 

"We're here," Ororo said unnecessarily, because Logan had felt the turn off the highway. "Be prepared for the pat-down of your life." 

She wasn't kidding. The car was stopped at gates that would have rivaled those at Xavier's mansion. Logan's skin crawled, feeling watching eyes _everywhere_ even before a number of uniformed guards greeted them and asked for identification. They tried to play themselves off as nurses, but they had the exquisite posture and graceful movements of dancers... or trained combatants. 

The car, with Ororo and Hank still inside, was directed to park in a nearby garage. Logan's bag was taken from him at the front entrance of the large but bland building, which boasted a metal detector. 

"We've discussed the unique circumstances of my companion," Charles intervened before Logan could speak up. "I believe I've faxed in copies of his x-rays?" 

"You have," the lead 'nurse' looked as though she were sucking on a lemon, her face was turned so bitterly. "But we still need to determine whether he's carrying anything that could be used as a weapon." 

_I_ am _a weapon,_ Logan thought wryly, but allowed himself to be escorted through the detectors and winced at their predictable screeching. His hands were wiped down with cloths to check for explosive residue. Jesus; did Charles go through this every time? 

He endured the thorough check-up without complaint and took his much lighter bag when they handed it to him past the door. Glancing inside, he frowned when he saw that the VHS tapes had been removed. 

"The tapes-" he began. 

"- Will be reviewed for content before Ms. Maximoff can be permitted to watch them." 

"It's just some Hanukah stuff filmed by her brother," Logan protested, and tensed at the sharp looks thrown his way. "What?" 

"Bringing up young Mr. Maximoff is almost certain to trigger a meltdown," one of the younger 'nurses' cautioned. "She does not have positive feelings towards her brother." 

"So I'm... forbidden from talking about Pietro?" Logan queried. Their vague, shifty glances mystified him. 

"Not _forbidden,_ " the chattiest among them clarified. "Just... strongly advised not to." 

"Oh... kay, then." Feeling like he was missing a lot of subtext, followed them into a warm, eerily empty, office-like building. 

He and Charles were lead to a small, windowless, undecorated room set up like a conference center: Six metal chairs waited on one side, and one on the other. He noticed, as he chose a chair and sat, that they were all bolted to the thinly-carpeted cement floor. 

Charles wheeled next to him, but not terribly close even in the confined space. Logan would have had to really stretch to reach him. They didn't speak as they were left alone, or when Logan's head cocked at the sound of multiple approaching footsteps. 

Then the door swung open, and there she was: willowy and tall. 

He'd been prepared for the straightjacket strapped over the plain cotton jumpsuit, but not the long matt of unwashed dark hair obscuring the teenager's face, or the sickly pallor to her skin. It was remarkable that she didn't trip as they lead her to her chair. 

He closed his eyes and let his stronger senses do the observing. She'd recently eaten- oatmeal, fruit- and there was the minty brush of toothpaste. Laundry detergent. Sweat. Normal scents... And underneath it all, the dreamy, milky breath of heavy medication. 

Her breathing was shallow and quiet. Her heart, slow and steady. Too slow. 

But something about her crackled like a bonfire. He felt it along his skin, raising the hair on his arms and the back of his neck. A silent and constant hum. 

He tried to ignore how uneasy it made him feel. 

She didn't speak until the 'nurses' had situated her in the chair opposite Logan's, left the room, and closed the door. Logan felt dozens of eyes on him nonetheless: there must have been hidden cameras on every surface to make him so twitchy. 

"I don't know you. Who are you?" Her voice was low; raspy, and faintly accented- European. Pietro had had a lifetime in New York's society to forget the cadence of his childhood tongue; it seemed his twin had not. 

"Hey, Wanda. I'm Logan." 

"What is inside of you, Logan? Underneath your skin- it is so cold." 

Logan tried not to feel too creeped out. He'd known she was powerful; she likely could sense just as much about him as he could her. He suspected that drawing his claws would not be appreciated in this small room, so he instead described himself: "My bones are coated in adamantium- including my claws." 

"Metal bones..." 

Logan felt a sudden chill in the room- no, not the room but within _himself_. Radiating from the inside out. He resisted the urge to shiver. 

"It is cold," she said again, and he wasn't imagining a hint of smugness to her voice.

Oh, Logan knew this game. He'd played it plenty of times himself, long ago. A need to, in whatever way possible, assert power over those that contained you. 

He didn't know if she could see him through her curtain of hair, but he relaxed his posture anyway: unfolding his arms, uncrossing his legs, and opening his palms. 

"Wanda, I live in a house with four mutant boys about your age. I've been very excited to meet you." 

"So what?" her smugness was gone, replaced by wariness. He must, after all, have _some_ angle, to be visiting her like this. 

Oh, the tricky part had come already. To mention her brother or not? 

"So, I'm here to wish you a happy Hanukah," he said, rather lamely, and cursed the waver in his voice. Showing relaxation: good. Showing uncertainty: bad. He reached into his bag to pull out a wrapped plastic package of fake gold coins. "One of the boys sent some gelt your way." 

Her chapped lips quirked to the side at the mention of chocolate, and Logan tried not to feel too hopeful. Pietro had insisted she was fond of sweets when he gave Logan the package... 

"Those boys that you live with- they know of me?" Then, more warily still, "Charles, why did you bring this man to me? What does he want?" 

Shit. This new addition to her schedule was making her anxious. He smelled it on her skin. Well, she was going to find out sooner or later anyway... 

"I'm here because one of my boys is someone who cares a whole lot about you. I know, because when he heard where you are, he looked happier than I've ever seen him." Logan swallowed. "Pietro sends his regards." 

She didn't react at all for a long stretch of moments. Then Charles shot Logan a glance that spoke volumes: whatever was happening in the girl's mind, it was alarming indeed. 

"You're a liar, Logan," Wanda accused, shaking her hair from her face with a flick of her head. Her eyes were the deep, piercing blue of her brother's... and of her father. She scowled fiercely, every line of her face etched in hate. "My brother would say no such thing, and our _father_ would never allow _you_ to have him, either. Not his precious silver boy." 

Now it was Logan's turn to look Charles' way. Did she have no idea, then, of what had become of her twin? Did she know nothing of the abandonment, the foster homes? 'Precious silver boy' indeed. 

Charles didn't respond, so Logan set the chocolates on another chair and met gazes with Wanda again: there was no lie in his eyes when he told the girl, "That's what he said to me. He recorded a tape for you to watch, but it was confiscated. I'm afraid you'll have to ask after it yourself." 

Wanda held his stare, jaw clenched, staring him down. When he did not waver, her black eyebrows pressed closer together, mouth quivering. Her eyes, innocent and bright, shone glassy. For a second, Logan feared she might cry. 

"You're wrong. You're _wrong._ No, no, no... no, it's not. He wouldn't. He couldn't-" 

But when she looked to Charles for confirmation of her firm worldview, the old man said nothing to contradict his companion. 

She shot to her feet, advanced on the men. With arms still bound, they'd insisted she was no threat. Logan wasn't stupid enough to believe this for a moment, but still he allowed her to approach; still he kept his open posture despite his very instincts screaming at him- _fight! Flight! Fight!_

He would not be made afraid of a kid, not after a whole lifetime of people being afraid of him. 

"Pietro wants to be a part of your life, Wanda," Logan told her when she was almost upon him. "If you'll have him. And I... I want to help you." 

"No! _No!_ " 

It seemed they'd reached the limits of her tenuous tolerance. She would not accept any new information, not today. The wail that emanated from her lips was hard on the ears. "Just get out! Leave! I don't want you here--" 

Her eyes were wild; her arms struggled valiantly to free themselves. The cold she'd projected, imaginary or not, into Logan's bones rose to such a pitch that he ached and shivered all over, made nauseous by the unique pain. 

"Okay," he said softly, working to show neither discomfort nor alarm in his steady tone. "I'll leave you be for today, Wanda. Please watch the videos if you can." 

He stood, and if she was surprised by his diminutive height compared to her own, she didn't show it. She was panting, whimpers trapped in her throat, narrow chest heaving underneath her jacket even as her eyes slid out of focus. He stepped around her and made for the door, knowing that Charles would follow close behind. 

It felt wrong to leave her like this. It felt wrong to leave her at all. It was the only thing he could do. 

"Goodbye for today, Wanda," he said gently as he stepped into the hallway, where multiple 'nurses' were waiting to take his place. Two filed into the room. Four remained to walk Logan and Charles back to the outside doors.

Once out of Wanda's sight, Logan no longer worked to conceal his own rising discomfort. He wrapped his arms around himself and shivered hard, teeth clattering. He couldn't possibly be breathing out a cloud of visible breath in this heated building, could he? 

The unaffected nurses and Charles looked at him, but said nothing as he hurried outside to stand in the sunlight until his body could cease its spasming. How it was possible to be warmer out here, with visible snow drifts scooped to every edge, was a mystery. 

Well. At least now he knew exactly what he was dealing with. A couple parlor illusions like that were supposed to scare him away? Not likely. 

Charles rolled to his side, and they waited in silence for the return of their companions. Hank watched them concernedly as they climbed back into the vehicle and the still-chilled Logan stretched to adjust the heat-dial by Ororo's elbow. 

"You couldn't have been in there for half an hour," Hank pointed out, puzzled. "I thought the meeting would take longer than that." 

"Meetings with Wanda never last for long," Charles said, voice firm with authority and self-assuredness. The 'I-told-you-so' was implied in every syllable. "She's too emotionally fragile for any level of communication. I suppose you've given up this charity-mission of yours, then, Logan?" 

Logan smiled, a predatorial baring of teeth that he knew Charles could see in the rearview mirror. 

"Not at all, Chuck. I'm _just_ getting started." 

* * *

"Can someone help Todd off the ceiling? I think he's stuck." 

"How can he possibly be _stuck?!_ " 

"He's hammered, bro. You probably shouldn't have poured the entire bottle of schnapps into the 'nog." 

_Fuck..._

Pietro waded through the overcrowded living space to stand beneath where the toad, shirtless, was wrapped around the light fixture and singing uproariously about hedgehogs. His face, neck, shoulders, and chest were flushed an unattractive puce color from hanging upside-down, or possibly from the excess of alcohol. If he puked, they were all doomed. 

"Hey! Bugbreath! Come here now." 

"Go _'way,_ Silver-bellsh! I'm _ssssinging!_ " 

Normally Pietro would have sent Fred to handle Todd, but the youngest Brotherhood boy was currently lying on the living room floor, an arm curled protectively around his half-feral cat, snoring gently. 

Pietro knew in the back of his mind that he'd be busted for this little stunt of his, but, well. The alternative was staying alone in his room all night and stressing over the fact that his caregiver was upstate visiting his long-lost sister who wanted him dead. Inviting half the school over for a wild teenage party too big for his house to contain had seemed like a more reasonable alternative. 

Lance, also fighting his way through the intoxicated, bouncing, singing crowd to reach Pietro's elbow, sighed heavily. "Todd. C'mon, dude..." 

He, at least, hadn't been drinking. When offered, he'd just fiddled with the chain he always wore round his neck nowadays and mumbled lame excuses. Now he was looking fatigued. Concern overrid Pietro's annoyance, and he used the tightness of the crowd as an excuse to press against Lance's side. "You okay? You're not gonna get a migraine on us, are you?" 

Lance shook his head. "Just _tired._ " 

"Old man." 

"Hey, I'm not the one with silver pubes." 

Pietro masked his laugh with a cough and a stern glare, but Lance read the amusement in his eyes anyway and grinned, smug and proud. 

From the ceiling came Todd's singsong voice: "Silver ballsh, _sssssilver balls..._!" 

Pietro pointed aggressively at first him, then Lance. "You stop that. If he starts calling me that, I'm blaming you." 

But it was too late: Lance was laughing, and maybe Pietro was a little tipsy despite his speedster metabolism because he found he couldn't look away. When Lance laughed, _really_ laughed, he tipped his head back and crinkles formed at the corners of his half-squinted eyes. Pietro thought of Michelangelo, of Raphael or Botticelli, and found their art lacking. 

The blinking snowflake-shaped lights that Pietro had strung around the house sent patches of color illuminating different pieces of Lance's face, and suddenly Pietro wished that the partygoers would leave. That he could retreat to Lance's messy room and crawl onto his rumpled bed and lay his head on the other boy's chest and be lulled into relaxation by the steady thrum of his heart. When, exactly, had Lance's simple company become preferable to the extroverted excitement of a party? 

A loud boom out front had most of the partygoers jumping and squealing and Pietro, snapped from his brief reverie, groaned aloud. Tabitha must be at it again, putting the fear of God into some drunk humans. Amusing, but likely to draw the cops. "I'll deal with Todd if you deal with her," Pietro bargained. Lance sighed, but left to do just that. 

Just as Pietro was contemplating fetching the broom to try and prod Todd down, the crowd began to surge. Pietro was buffeted from all sides as people made for the door. 

"Hey!" he protested inelegantly, arms pinwheeling as he almost losing his footing. "What the hell-" 

"Parents, man!" someone shouted. "Teachers! Time to get outta here!" 

Oh. Damn. 

The crowd gradually thinned through both the front and back doors until a familiar blue head was visible: Hank, with one long arm around a sheepish Kurt and the other around Sam to keep them, too, from hightailing it. He did not look pleased. 

Todd, whether by accident or design, chose that moment to release his death-grip on the ceiling and come crashing down. Pietro only just managed to catch him in time and stood guiltily holding the small boy as he sleepily nuzzled his face into Pietro's shoulder. He positively _reeked_ of peppermint schnapps. 

Pietro felt Logan's eyes on him before he saw the man; the escaping teens gave him a wide berth as they, laughing and hollering, parted like the Red Sea in their stampede. Someone dove out the open window. The music abruptly came to a halt as the band girls who'd brought the speakers collected their equipment on their way out. 

Hank called out the window, and a moment later Lance's face appeared, almost pale in the dark of the chill night outside. Tiny flakes of snow had caught in his dark hair and melted against his cheeks. Pietro didn't catch the entire exchange, but the words 'designated driver' were spoken. Lance, beleaguered, sighed a second time and reached for his Jeep keys. 

“What?!” Pietro exclaimed, when he could no longer ignore Logan’s knowing stare. 

Logan folded his arms. 

_”I_ didn’t do it! You always blame me for everything.” 

Logan waited. Pietro rolled his eyes, let out an exasperated huff. “Okay fine, so maybe I did it a little.” 

"Mhmmm." 

Despite his outrage at being (justly) accused, Pietro couldn't deny a small sense of relief that the man was still in one piece and looked no worse for the wear. He wondered how to ask him about the events of that afternoon without seeming _too_ invested, but first... 

"You're going to clean all this up." Logan gestured to the shambles that was the emptying room and then knelt to shake Fred awake. "Not til you've put Todd to bed, though." 

It was, all things considered, a reasonable demand. Logan continued to surprise him with his patience. When Pietro had behaved difficultly at his other foster homes, it was only a matter of time before he was sent away as a 'problem child.' He'd long since grown used to the shampoo-rinse-repeat process of it all. 

He kept this to himself, though, and made a big show of complaining all the way up the stairs with Todd in his arms. Kurt waved at them as they passed, but Todd only tucked his face more firmly into Pietro's neck, not looking at his friend. 

"What's all that about?" Pietro asked, curious despite himself. 

"Nothin', yo," Todd muttered. "Jusht... he. He kissed _Cannonball_ under the mishtletoe. I thought, I thought that what we, what we, that he might... _You know_..." 

"Oh. Is that why you hung all this crap up?" Pietro reached to a light fixture and tugged one of the plants down. "God, you're such a kid." 

"We're the _same age!_ " 

"Don't remind me. Trust me: Kurt's not interested in Sam. And Sam? He was lurking in doorways all night trying to catch Lance. Not that the loser ever even noticed all the cow-eyes being sent his way." Pietro was quick to erase the fond smile off his face. Todd might be drunk, but he was still pretty sharp about everything save for one giant, Kurt-shaped blind spot. 

"He _was?_ " a hint of hope filtered into Todd's voice. He paused, considered, spoke hesitantly: "Tro, do you think that... Uh, never mind." 

When they reached his bedroom, Pietro kicked the door open and shifted the majority of Todd’s diminutive weight onto one hip as he grabbed the duvet cover, fanning it out with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t you _ever_ make your bed?” he groused, aghast at the wrinkly fabric. 

“Why bother?” Todd asked, and so Pietro tossed him onto it as though he were throwing him into a swimming pool. Todd cackled, grabbing at the headboard to keep from being bounced off the bed entirely. “Wee! Do it again.” 

“No, toadlet. Hop on your own lily-pad.” 

“At least tuck me in, then,” Todd pouted, and because nobody sober was around to see it, Pietro obliged. He bunched the pillow under Todd’s head and pulled the duvet up to his chin. 

He made to leave, but a small webbed hand caught his wrist. “Thanks, Tro-bro,” Todd yawned hugely. “You’re th’ best.” 

“Uh-huh, sure.” 

“I _mean_ it.” Pale amber eyes focused on his face; the hyperfixation of the very intoxicated. If he was terribly hungover tomorrow, Pietro would feel a little guilty. He probably should have stopped the kid after the first mugful of eggnog. “I never thought I'd ever, _ever_ have a family again.” 

Oh. 

Pietro’s heart twanged. 

“Go to sleep,” he said, and ruffled the mutant’s scraggly mop of hair. "There's water on the table; drink it or you'll regret it. If you need to puke, get someone else." 

He’d just switched the light off and was starting to close the door when Todd spoke again. “Love you too, Tro.” 

He was already snoring by the time Pietro opened his mouth to respond. And suddenly, Pietro was four years old again, being carried to the bedroom he shared with his sister. His father had been singing, low and melodic: a Polish lullaby. He was clean; freshly bathed and dressed in soft pajamas. His father's stubble had scraped Pietro's cheek as he kissed first his son and then his daughter goodnight. Pietro had felt sleepy and loved and safe. 

Back in the present day, Pietro physically recoiled at the memory, feeling like he'd just been stabbed in the chest with a red-hot poker. How was it possible that the small handful of good memories hurt infinitely more than a lifetime of bad?! They crept in on him sometimes when he least expected it, and it'd never become easier to accept or understand.

Pietro shook his head violently as he shut Todd's door behind himself, trying to force the unwelcome thoughts out of his head. He regarded the discarded cups and bottles, the pulled-down lights and scuffed walls of the hallway, and smiled grimly. Lance would be a while driving the drunk kids home, but it looked as though Pietro had plenty to do until then. After that... 

He stuffed the stolen mistletoe into his pocket, rolled his sleeves up, and got to work. There were better distractions to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The thrilling tale behind Fluffer's name:
> 
> _"Fred, what's that smell?"_
> 
> _"... My sandwich."_
> 
> _"Moo!"_
> 
> _"... That ain't no fluffernutter."_
> 
> _"Well sure it is, Logan!"_


	12. Festivities Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Make the yuletide gay...

"Freddie, you've recently had a birthday, haven't you?"

"Hm? Oh. Yes, ma'am; I'm sixteen now." 

"I do wish you wouldn't call me 'ma'am.' I'm not _that_ old." 

"Sorry, uh, Marianne. That's just how I was raised." 

The polite Southern boy helped the middle-aged librarian push carts of books to be re-shelved. She'd been kind to the Brotherhood since they'd first started coming to the library in an effort to escape the cold weather, so long as they didn't misbehave too badly. Sometimes she'd even snuck them Oreos and packets of hot chocolate from the staff break room when their growling stomachs became too hard to ignore. 

"Sixteen..." she was lost in thought for a moment. They were in the brightly-lit children's section with its wide windows, low tables, and cushy beanbag chairs, the enormous dollhouse locked in its showcase still needing to be decorated for the holidays. (Sometimes Fred amazed and delighted the children by hiding dinosaurs in the bathtub and penguins in the kitchen.) "It's been almost a year and a half since we've met, did you know that?" 

"Huh... I guess so." What an odd thought: it'd been over two years since he'd last seen his parents, then; or set foot on Georgia soil. It- No; this was not a good train of thought to travel on. He cast about for any distraction before he became too gloomy. 

"Would you like a job, Freddie?" 

"Sure," he agreed gratefully. "Do you need me to change the vents again?" 

Marianne shook her head, a cotton-candy curl falling over one eye. "Not what I meant, hon. I mean a real job. A paying job. We have a new Page position opening. It's pretty much just everything you already do, but it'd be official." 

Fred blinked at the stout woman. He hadn't made his own salary since traveling with the show. He already spent a good chunk of his free time at the library anyway, but- 

"My dad... Um, _foster_ dad would say 'school comes first,'" Fred said, unintentionally mimicking Logan's growly voice as he leaned his elbow on one of the taller shelves. 

"And I agree!" Marianne nodded vehemently. "But we like having you here a few hours a week. We all want you as part of the staff. Heck- bring your dad in to talk to me and we can work something out. If you want to, of course." 

"Foster dad," Fred corrected automatically, more to himself than to her. He probably wasn't allowed to think of Logan as a 'dad', and always felt a rush of hot shame when he accidentally did so. Not when he already had his own parents, who might one day decide they still wanted him after all... 

_'You're not our son. There will be no freaks in our family. It's unnatural.'_

Marianne patted him on the arm; she had to stretch on her tip-toes to reach. "Think it over. No pressure." 

Fred busied himself with various tasks until the rapidly setting sun darkened the building and Marianne was calling for him. "Your ride's here!" 

He expected to see Lance's Jeep when he re-donned his coat and stepped outside, but it was instead a familiar station wagon idling at the curb. He cocked his head to see Hank McCoy in all his blue-furred glory waiting alone for him, patiently ignoring the boggle-eyed stares of patrons startled by his appearance. 

"Hop on in, Mr. Dukes," the professor greeted warmly through the rolled-down window. "It's cold outside!" 

Fred did not hop, but rather folded himself slowly and carefully into the passenger's seat, holding his breath when the suspension sank abd it creaked under his size. It held him. He let out a sigh of relief and closed the door before turning his attention to the driver. "You're not Lance," he pointed out. "Or Logan." 

"No," Hank smiled. "Thank heavens for that. Mr. Alvers managed to get himself covered in paint and glitter working on a set today and is still trying to wash it out of his hair. Logan is upstate, so you get me instead." 

Fred grinned a little thinking of a sparkly, colorful Lance as the old car left the library. "Why's Logan always upstate lately?" he asked. "This is the second time this month..." 

"Ah, that's not for me to say." Hank looked a little uncomfortable. "I'm sure Mr. Maximoff will tell you when he's ready." 

What did Pietro have anything to do with Logan's recurring, hours-long trips away? As usual, Fred was the last to know anything. He folded his arms and sank back sulkily into the bucket seat. This pout was broken before it could really get started by Hank handing him a paper cup with a plastic lid. "Cider," he explained. "The girls made some." 

Pleasantly surprised, Fred breathed in the aroma of apple and spice, steam cupping his face, and then took a sip. It was _good._

"We used to make cider on the farm," he remembered. "Every winter." 

Hank seemed pleased that he'd offered this bit of personal information. "You grew up on a farm, Fred?" 

"Yep. Cotton mostly, but goats, catfish... The whole nine yards." 

Fred's fond memories were ground to a halt as they pulled in front of the Brotherhood house. His home was dark save for one downstairs light. Lance's jeep and Logan's motorcycle were nowhere to be seen. Below the cracked sign recently replaced by a freshly painted one à la Toad (now reading in full technicolor glory: "House of Bitchin' Bros"), Fred saw a Christmas tree softly glowing in the front window. 

Logan must have been very busy that morning. 

Fred's eyes swept up and down the modest-sized plastic evergreen, noting its colorful baubles and strings of lights. It wasn't anything like the ones he'd grown up with: Huge and fresh, the ornaments all hand-made and full of nostalgia, the popcorn strands strung by hand. Yet, still... 

His heart squeezed violently; an acute, physical pain that had a hand flying to his chest and the other to his mouth, pushing back any sound he might make. 

He'd cried a lot after he'd first been evicted from his childhood home, had gotten pretty good at keeping all sounds down as the tears bit and stung his eyes. Now, though, what he'd been repressing for weeks hit him like a semi-truck. 

"Fred!" Hank exclaimed, turning startled, concerned eyes on the teenager. "What's the matter?" 

Fred shook his head and fumbled for the doorhandle, turning his face away. 

_Why couldn't they love me?_

He heard Hank climbing out of the station wagon after him, but he just fumbled in his pocket for his housekey, taking long-legged strides to the door. He'd inserted his key when a bang on the other side made the entire thing wobble dangerously on its hinges. 

"What was that?" Hank, just catching up with him, hesitated as Fred hurriedly pushed the door open and the two men were assaulted by the pungent stench of ammonia and bleach. Hank coughed loudly, fur bristling, but Fred strode in with arms extended. The next time a silver blur entered the room, they both caught a glimpse of what was occurring. 

Pietro's eyes were unfocused as he zipped from one spotless, polished area of the house to the next. He'd touch something, move it, and then put it back. After a moment, he'd return and move it again. 

"Pietro?" Hank questioned, but Pietro appeared not to hear him, instead racing past them to nudge the stack of magazines on the coffee table. He took the TV remote off the pile, considered, then put it back. 

"It's still not right," he mumbled unhappily. 

"Oh," Fred realized, tears forgotten. It'd been quite a long time since he'd seen Pietro act this way. "Right. He gets 'stuck' like this sometimes when you leave him alone too long. Cleans the whole house and then kinda freaks out when there's nothing left to do." 

While Hank watched, Fred stepped into Pietro's space, bent, and took his hands, enveloping the delicate appendages in his vast grip. "Hey. _Hey._ You're okay." 

Pietro's nose wrinkled in irritation at having his 'cleaning' interrupted. He tried to wrench his hands free. "It's not _right,_ Fred!" he snarled, and then stiffened when his glassy eyes focused on the younger boy's features. He shot a suspicious glare Hank's way. "Have you been crying again?!" 

Relieved to have broken through his mental haze, Fred shrugged at the question. "I'm okay now. Where is everybody?" 

Pietro sighed, still twitching and jerking in Fred's hold, but the tremors were gradually lessening as he returned to himself. "Logan's upstate. Lance and Todd went somewhere. Wouldn't tell me where." 

Ah. Pietro hated being left behind even more than Fred did. 

"I'm going to cook dinner for us," Fred said firmly, still holding onto both of Pietro's hands. "I need your help." 

Pietro looked relieved. Just like Fred, sometimes a task, and to be needed, was all he required to feel whole again. "What do I need to do?" he asked. 

Five minutes later, Fred had chicken-sausage and onions sizzling in a pan alongside mushrooms and peppers, while Pietro dubiously worked his hands in a bowl of flour and egg. The tactile sensory input of cooking seemed to ground him back to reality, and his cheeks pinked, embarrassed at having been caught in such a lapse. 

Fred could relate. 

Hank sat at the table with a mug of tea, entertaining Fluffernutter (whom he'd lured from the back of the cupboard where he was hidden in fear of Pietro's cleaning onslaught) with a feather toy. Hank seemed determined to wait with the boys until Logan returned, no doubt alarmed at their odd behavior. 

"Are you doing anything for Christmas?" Hank asked, unknowingly stepping onto the landmine that was Fred's feelings about the holiday. "It looks like Logan's done some decorating." 

Pietro snorted. "You could say that again. He's making us do a lame Secret Santa gift exchange thing; we all picked someone's name out of a hat." 

"He isn't _making_ us," Fred corrected. "He said you didn't have to do it because you already got your Hanukah presents, remember?" 

"I didn't want to be the only one not doing it!" Pietro protested. He seemed to be feeling better by the minute. "And you still haven't answered me: why were you crying earlier?" 

_Sigh_. Fred glanced at Hank and gave a minute shake of his head. Pietro was merciless and barreled on like a freight train anyway. He gave Hank yet another glare that could sour milk. "Did _you_ say something to him?!" 

"Al _right!_ " Fred exclaimed, grumpily throwing a handful of pine-nuts into the pan with vigor. "Don't get a burr in your saddle. I was just... seeing all this Christmas stuff sometimes hurts a little, you know? Makes me think of when my parents uh. Found out about what I am and..." He trailed off. Pietro looked ashamed for pushing. 

"Fuck parents," he offered, the closest he could come to an apology. 

"Pietro-" Hank chided at the bad language. Before he could lecture them, the front door banged open. 

"We're home! Damn, it's clean. Pietro, did you-" 

Lance, with Todd riding piggyback and a blanket slung like cloak over the both of them, sauntered cheerily into the kitchen. Both faltered when they saw Hank. Fluffernutter, who'd decided he liked Lance about as much as he liked Logan, hissed and puffed up to twice his size. Lance took a hasty step back, guarding his shins. "Uh, hi." 

"We're making dumplings," Pietro sniffed haughtily, and resumed his dough-kneading with the wounded posture of a put-upon servant. "And you can't have any because you're an _ass_ who goes places without me." 

"The dumplings are for everyone, Tro," Fred reminded the smaller boy, grinning a little to himself as he saw Lance's hand touch Pietro's neck. Just that brief brush of fingertips was enough to make the teenager soften his icy demeanor. 

"Fine. But he only gets the burnt ones." 

Todd travelled from Lance's back to Fred's, still shivering from the cold, and looped long, bendy arms around his friend's thick neck. "Of course there'll be burnt ones," he whispered into Fred's ear. "You're letting _Pietro_ cook 'em." 

They were all sat around the table enjoying dinner by the time Logan returned. He tried to creep around them, but Pietro sat up sharply, eyes narrowed, and zeroed in on the tip-toing footsteps. "Hey! Old man!" 

Logan peeped sheepishly around the corner. He was looking very peculiar with his hair disarrayed, his odd cotton clothing holier than Swiss cheese, though as always his body no longer bore the injuries to match. 

"Whoa," Lance pushed his food into one cheek so that he could ask, muffled, "wha' happen' ta _you?_ " 

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Logan tried, again unsuccessfully, to slink into his room and change clothes. Pietro wasn't having it. 

"I thought you said they bound her hands." His blue eyes were looking very troubled, and he pointed an accusatory fork at his guardian. "That she couldn't- She can't possibly be strong enough to-" 

"Will someone please tell me what's going on?!" Todd demanded, slamming a webbed fist on the table and making their water glasses wobble. "I'm tired of all these secrets. Who is 'she'? This is dumb, yo!" 

Hank, Logan, and Pietro all exchanged a long look. Logan cocked his head, expression plain: _It's up to you._

Pietro's foot began to tap an anxious rhythm on the wooden floor, matched only by the drumming of his fingers on his thigh. He bit his lip and looked from one curious face to the next before his eyes finally settled on Lance's. He took a deep breath and then let it out, shoulders relaxing, and swallowed. 

"Yeah," he decided. "Yeah, I guess I do need to tell you. Listen good, though; I'm not repeating anything. And none of this leaves the room, got it?! What I'm about to tell you is top secret." 

Fred nodded alongside Todd and Lance, as eager to know as anyone. Pietro waited another moment, checking their eyes for sincerity, before settling back into his chair. 

"Alright. So. About my sister-" 

* * *

Alarm clocks were rendered obsolete in the Brotherhood house on Christmas morning. 

Each boy was instead rapidly and mercilessly woken by a small toad dressed in red and green flannel flinging himself bodily onto their sleeping forms. 

"Wake up wake up wake _up,_ yo; it's _Christmas!_ " 

Lance made a miserable noise along the lines of "MrffToddwha'thefuck _whyyyy,_ " hooked an arm around the small boy's neck, and rolled on top of him- though whether to snuggle or to smother was anyone's guess. 

Any attempts at mattress-assisted fratricide were halted by the muffled voice insisting, "But _Lance,_ there's _presents!_ " And, after a pause, "Also coffee." 

Lance heaved a great, long-suffering sigh and peeled his gritty eyes open in time to see Pietro, also clad in flannel, appear curiously in the doorway. Todd whooped. 

"You wore the pajamas!" 

Indeed, all three of the boys present were wearing brand-new pajamas, identical in everything but size and color: pre-Christmas gifts from their guardian they'd unwrapped the night before. Pietro had kicked up an appalled fuss ( _"We're too_ old _for footie pajamas!"_ ) but it seemed that he, too, had succumbed to the spirit of giving... Or of chilly toes. 

"There's socks hanging on our doors," Pietro drolly observed, reaching to pluck a red-velvet stocking bulging with secrets from Lance's doorhandle. 

"Don't open it yet!" Todd demanded. "I still gotta wake Freddie." 

"Yeah," Lance agreed grouchily, releasing his death-grip on the smaller boy. "If we have to suffer, then so does he." 

Todd wriggled out of the bed and dashed on all fours into the hallway while the two older boys watched. When Lance sat up, his spectacular case of bedhead audibly crackled with static, causing the impeccably-groomed Pietro to smirk. 

It didn't take long for Todd to return with a yawning Fred rubbing his eyes, both boys clutching overflowing "socks" of their own. Lance was more than a little dismayed when they chose his bed as the receptacle upon which to empty such bounty. This reticence was quickly resolved when he saw what his _own_ stocking contained. 

"Chocolate," Todd mumbled, going through his similar pile. "Jerky. Card game. Gum. Weird toothbrush. Socks- socks in a sock! Ha!- sunglasses... oh my God, is this-" 

"Yep," Lance grinned evilly, looking quite mad with his sticking-up hair as he held his own PVC-pipe marshmallow shooter. "It's payback time, little toad." 

"Lance, man-!" Todd pleaded, palm up in supplication, eyes huge. His free hand fumbled on the bed behind him for his own weapon. "Surely we can talk this out, yo, have mercy; peace on earth, good will to toads, baby Jesus wouldn't want--!" 

It was the shrieking that woke Logan. He wondered if perhaps that particular purchase from 'Santa' was a mistake as he regarded the marshmallow-splattered walls and boys, sighed, and rasped two hands down his stubbled face with a groan. "What did I say about starting fights before breakfast?!" 

Pietro, who had survived the Great Marshmallow War of '01 relatively unscathed due to distinct biological advantage, reappeared in a silvery blur and gave his battle-scarred companions a sunny smile. "So!" he said, clapping his hands together. "Presents?" 

Lance took aim and fired a single marshmallow at the seat of his footie pajamas. Pietro's eyes went wide as he clasped his behind and leapt a foot into the air, yowling like Fluffernutter in the bathtub. The cat, recognizing the call of his own kind, caterwauled back from Fred's bedroom. 

"Yeah," Logan agreed, following his nose to the kitchen for some much-needed coffee. "Presents." 

There were five wrapped packages underneath the Christmas tree, though the oldest two members of the household were too busy embalming themselves with heated caffeine to appreciate the meticulously (if badly) wrapped offerings. Todd, having quite recovered from his brush with sugary death, grabbed the shabbiest of the quintent and thrust it, beaming, into Freddie's arms. 

"I wonder who got _this_ for ya, Fredster!" he grinned, winking conspiratorially. 

Fred’s gift had been messily wrapped with the comics section of Sunday newspapers, and the dented box it came in looked like it had seen better days. Fred’s patient fingers made careful work of the unwrapping process, taking so long that Pietro was tempted to wrench the box from his hands and tear it open himself. He refrained.

At long last, Fred held in his hands a high-quality, wide-lense camera.

“For your blog, yo!” Todd declared, bouncing back in excitement. “See, there’s a microchip inside; you can stick it in a computer and voilà! Pictures updated!”

Fred’s jaw dropped in pure, childlike joy. “Oh… oh, really?! Gosh, Todd! I’m just.” He laughed heartily, wiped at his suddenly misty eyes. “I’m happier ‘n a fox in a henhouse. You really are the best little buddy; you know that?”

Todd’s manic beam softened to a smaller, more understanding smile. “Aw, don’t cry, big guy; no crying on Christmas. Here, let me show you the cool parts…”

He assumed his favorite position on Fred’s shoulder, propped his elbow on his head, and turned the device over, talking animatedly about the camera’s features and abilities.

They were so easy together. Pietro never really did understand it. When the Brotherhood had been new and rocky, strangers forced to live together, the two had clicked almost immediately. Todd claimed Fred’s shoulder like it had been made for him, and Fred… well, Fred always seemed happier to have him there.

What must it be like to be so certain that the shoulder would forever be there, that the rider would always take the reins? Such easy trust...

Lance's turn came next. 

He was handled the largest of packages, wrapped in pale blue tissue paper and tied with a raffia bow. The loopy handwriting on the tag read "TO LANCE FROM SATAN", and it took only one glance at Fred's little grin to know who the demonic gifter must be. 

Lance tore into the paper, revealing a fluffy gray blanket, thick and downy and enormous. 

"It's 'cuz you're so tall," Fred broke in, unable to contain his secret any longer. "Blankets don't cover your feet. _This_ one will, though! Look, and there's fudge, too, and peppermint cookies... Do you like it?!" 

Lance _beamed,_ giving a little huff of a laugh as he unfolded the parachute-like stretch of material with a flick of his wrists. It settled like a cloud over his lap, and he reached across the sofa to squeeze Fred's arm. "Hell _yeah_ I do, Freddie! Thank you! It's perfect." 

He crammed two cookies into his mouth, washed them down with a swig of coffee, and then his cinnamon eyes flicked towards Pietro. "There might," a flush of red capped his ears. "There might be something for you under the tree, Tro." 

"Probably coal," Todd muttered under his breath, and was quieted by a nudge from Fred. 

Usually Pietro thrived as the center of attention, but he felt self-conscious now as eight eyes all turned on him and he looked between the three remaining gifts, scooping the smallest box that just read 'Pietro' in block letters into his palm. For a wild moment, he feared (hoped) it might be jewelry. No, it was too heavy for an earring... 

He tugged on the string that tied the box closed, dropped the lid into his lap, and lifted out a jangling slice of thin shiny metal about the size of a playing card, shaped like a lightening bolt. Its imperfections only proved its hand-welded nature. Threaded through a hole in the bolt was a ring, and dangling from that ring... 

A car key, shiny and freshly cut. At first, Pietro didn’t know what to think, aside from a confused, _Lance gave me a car?!_

Seeing Pietro’s blankness, Lance awkwardly explained- “It uh. It’s for the jeep. So you, you know... Have your own set, if you need it.” He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I know, it’s dumb; why would you even need to drive? You can run everywhere. But I just-”

“No fair, yo! No fair!” Todd interrupted, mouth downturned in shocked dismay. “You _never_ let me drive!”

“Yeah, because the one time I tried, you ducked under the dash and tried to hot-wire my _baby_.”

“Hey; old habits die hard, man.”

Pietro barely heard their bickering over the rush of blood in his ears. He couldn’t stop staring at the pile of silver in his palm. He knew what the jeep meant to Lance. It wasn’t just his ‘baby’- it was his freedom; his pride. He may as well have carved open his own torso and handed over permanent access to his vital organs. The amount of trust shown in this one gesture was...

When Pietro looked up the world seemed even slower than usual, tilted on its axis. Todd and Lance were still squabbling; Logan, rolling his eyes as he sipped his coffee. Fred was looking at Pietro and speaking, eyes bright and mohawk still pressed flat from his pillow. Pietro tried to focus. “What, Fred?”

“I asked if I could see it!”

Pietro did not miss the wince Lance gave when Pietro allowed Fred to pluck the keychain from his hands to look over Lance’s handiwork, or the even bigger cringe when Todd stretched on Fred’s shoulder to have a gander himself. Lance was still fiercely protective of his jeep; he kept his own set of keys in his pocket at all times. So why…

Lance caught him staring, and they locked gazes. Lance’s deep-set brown eyes were shadowed with uncertainty and rising anxiety. “It’s not very fancy, I know,” he mumbled, glancing at Fred’s unwrapped camera. Pietro realized that he hadn’t voiced any reaction to his gift just yet, but how could he possibly? His feelings were still in a dreamy, dazed limbo of confusion and awe. “I can get you something else if-”

“Lance,” Pietro said, and if his voice had climbed a little higher than normal, who could blame him? “Please shut up. It’s fucking incredible and you know it.”

Lance blinked, no doubt puzzled by the near-anger in Pietro’s intense tone. “It is?”

Stars. What did normal people do in such a situation?! The others had offered physical affection, smiles, words of gratitude for their gifts, but Pietro didn’t know how to do those things. He’d so conditioned himself against touching Lance while anyone else was around that to do so now would feel like the highest taboo. His face had forgotten how to smile. So he settled for the third option: “Thank you, Lance.”

“What does ‘zero-three-one-nine’ mean?” Todd asked, head cocked, as he examined the silver bolt. “Coordinates to buried treasure?”

Pietro too had seen the tiny raised numbers imbedded into the middle ‘zig’ of the keychain, but hadn’t given them much thought, assuming it to have either been part of the metal beforehand or to be a step in the welding process. He suspected differently when Lance reddened anew and snatched the gift, key jingling merrily, from Todd’s hand.

“Nothing! Can we keep going so we can get to breakfast sometime this decade?!”

 _Mighty_ suspicious. Pietro made a mental note to ask him about it later. 

When Lance passed the gift back to him, his thumb brushed Pietro’s wrist and Pietro’s numbed, icy astonishment thawed at the point of contact like the first breath of spring blooming crocuses into melted snow. He felt flushed all over and nearly dropped his present with abnormally clumsy fingers.

Todd, too, looked dubious at the brush-off, but Fred distracted him from arguing further. “Todd, you haven’t opened your present yet.”

“Oh, right!” attention diverted, the teenaged toad hopped back to the tree skirt where two gifts remained. He seized upon the neatly wrapped box of silver snowflakes on blue stars and hauled it into his lap, grinning cheekily Pietro’s way. “By process of elimination, I think I know who my Santa is!”

Pietro huffed, still holding tightly to his key. 

Of course Todd shredded the paper into tiny confetti, complaining that Pietro used too much tape to hold the plain box shut. When at last he’d opened it and parted the sea of tissue paper, he examined the three bottles of colorful gel with some puzzlement.

“Hank helped me make them,” Pietro explained. “They’re for your baths. They make the water into jelly, and it won't hurt your skin. Keep looking in the box." Honestly, if one's gift-giving didn't involve safety goggles and a labcoat, was one even _trying_?! 

Todd did as directed and pulled free a series of ultra-soft washcloths hand-sewn with patterns of lily-pads, and, in the very back-

“A toad! Who needs a rubber ducky when you have a rubber _toady_?!” He squeezed the green bath toy and croaked in glee when it emitted a little squeak. “Oh, dude; dude, I love it…”

Before Pietro could stop him, Todd had flung himself fully into Pietro’s lap, knocking his shoulders back into the wall as he hugged him tightly. He didn’t seem at all bothered that Pietro remained stiff as a board while he rocked him side-to-side. “Tro, man, Tro! This is the best Christmas I’ve ever had. You’re the coolest!”

Pietro sighed. He wished he knew how to reciprocate. How to… Just, how. What would Fred or Lance do?!

Very carefully, he brought a hand up and patted Todd between his shoulderblades. He was so tiny… It was easy to forget with his loud voice and enormous personality, but patting and hugging him like this made it clear just how small Todd really was- nothing more than papery skin stretched over reedy bones.

There was a flash of light and Pietro glared over Todd's shoulder, about to tell Fred to put the camera down, but then saw how Lance was looking at him. His Soft Eyes were on in full flux, shiny and gooey like half-melted brownies. Pietro gulped- someone should explain to the boy that those things were lethal weapons- and then gathered the strength to, very gingerly, wrap his free arm around Todd’s back in the world’s briefest, lightest hug before shooing him off. 

Logan, his knee pressed to Fred’s side, was looking very pleased. His craggy face was never the most expressive, but his little smile conveyed a depth of contentment that spoke volumes. He began to stand. “Looks like that’s a wrap, kids; ready for breakfast?”

“Hey, now!” Pietro protested, and pointed firmly at the couch. “You sit back down, old man. We aren’t done here yet.”

Logan shot a befuddled glance their way before his dark eyes flicked to the final present under the tree. Understanding dawned. "You _didn't-"_

Fred handed the box over with a cheesy cartoon grin eclipsing his face. Logan's eyebrows raised, impressed, and he unstuck the card from the front to look it over. 

The card had been hand-drawn by Todd; all geometrically stylized motorcycles covered in Christmas lights and Santa hats zooming down a snow-covered road. “FELIZ NAVI-DAD,” the front read in popping green letters. The inside bore signatures and brief messages from all four boys.

“That’s a great card,” Logan remarked, and nudged Todd with his boot. “You’ve really got a knack with the artsy-fartsy stuff, you know.”

Todd positively blossomed under the praise like a daisy in sunlight. The boys waited with bated breath as their caregiver unwrapped his present- covered in the same paper and overabundance of tape that Pietro had used on Todd’s bathing supplies.

Logan struggled so much in unwrapping this overtaped bundle that all feared- and secretly hoped- he might unsheathe his claws to finish the job. 

At long, clawless last, Logan held the box on his lap and gawked disbelievingly at what it contained: A DVD box-set of all seventeen seasons of _The Bold, Dark Edge of Life._

Recovering from the shock that his guilty secret wasn't quite so secret after all, Logan threw his head back and _laughed,_ long and loud and deep. 

“MERRY CHRISTMAS, POPS!” Todd exalted, and Logan was subjected to the same treatment that Pietro had received moments before. He took it in better stride, holding onto Todd with one hand and playfully mussing his hair with the other before glancing around at all the other boys.

“This gift is great, you little punks. I love it,” he declared, and his sincere, gruff voice was rife with both humor and affection. “C'mere.”

He held out an arm and, for one panicked moment, Pietro thought that Logan was calling to him specifically, but Fred took his place instead, pulling both Logan and Todd into his long reach. Lance considered, shrugged, and then joined in on the embracing festivities.

Relieved, Pietro slipped silently into to the kitchen and left them to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Fun fact: This is the first Christmas that Todd's ever celebrated.
> 
> \- Lance was inspired to make the keychain for Pietro by the bracelet Amara gave Tabby in the Thanksgiving chapter.
> 
> **The fascinating tale behind Todd's camera purchase:**  
>  _"So where'd ya get the camera, Todd?"_  
>  _"Hm? Oh. Old Patches sold it to me."_  
>  _"... Patches."_  
>  _"Yeah, Patches! Great guy. Runs a biker bar. Sometimes things fall off the backs of trucks and then he sells them for great prices."_  
>  _"You... went into a biker bar???"_  
>  _"Ooh look- Fred made hot chocolate!"_  
>  _"Todd..."_  
>  _"Mmmm, marshmallows..."_


	13. Festivities Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my Kodd, you guys.

The family of five sat, overstuffed and prodding at the remains of a sumptuous holiday breakfast when they were roused from their daze by a sharp, efficient knock on the door.

Logan's nose twitched- a faint movement that Todd suspected he was the only one to ever notice- and a grin broke out over his face. "Hey, Rocky," he drawled, standing and pounding Lance on the shoulder as he passed him. "It's your favorite person." 

"Mrgh?" in his pancake-induced lull, Lance only watched him lethargically through half-lidded eyes. "Who?" 

In answer, Logan pulled the door open. "Well merry Christmas, Goggles," he greeted Scott, who stood soldier-tall in a sweater that might have been festive, had the beholder been both repressed and colorblind. 

Lance groaned loudly and attempted to sink beneath the table while Todd snickered. His laughter ceased when, teleporting gratuitously from the car, Kurt slung an arm around Scott's waist and squeezed him tightly. "I keep telling him to lighten up, professor," he confided to Logan. "But he cannot help but to be moody, even today." 

"I only came here to drop him off," Scott explained stiffly, peeling Kurt's arm away and holding it out to Logan like he might the leash of a hyper puppy. "He wouldn't stop begging." 

" _Please_." Logan didn't roll his eyes, but it was evident in his voice that he'd quite like to. Leaning forward, he grabbed Scott by the shoulder and hauled him into a brief hug. "It's Christmas. Christmas is for family. Come in." 

"I don't want..." 

Scott was no weakling, but even he couldn't resist the unstoppable steamroller of muscle, metal, and attitude that was Logan Howlett. He was dragged forcefully onto the threshold of enemy territory, with Kurt hopping in merrily after him. 

Scott braced himself, as though expecting an attack, but when Kurt pranced around him and to the table where four overhead mutants grinned drowsily at him, his crusty exterior crumbled, just a little. 

"Hello," he sighed warily. 

"Hey." Fred waved. "Hungry?" He pushed a plate containing fresh-baked bread and apple butter to the end of the table. 

Kurt and Todd regarded one another, pleased but unusually reluctant. Where they'd normally be roughhousing, they now only stood and regarded each other with stolen peeks between lashes. Pietro and Fred exchanged a glance, eyebrows arched so similarly that, despite their differences, they very much appeared the brothers that they were. 

"You, uh," Kurt cleared his throat, plucked at the sleeve of his green sweater. "You said you had something to show me, Todd?" 

"Um." Todd looked to Lance, who nodded encouragingly. "Yes, Kurt." 

They spoke stiffly; bad actors in a church play. Lance joined them with his own dreadful monotone. "Yes Todd, why don't you and Kurt go and take a walk in the woods?" 

Pietro's second eyebrow rose to meet the first. " _Why?!_ It snowed last night. Todd's gonna have to wear twenty layers and he'll probably still have to be carried home in a body bag. And why are you all talking like pod people?" 

For once, Cyclops looked to be in agreement with Quicksilver. He opened his mouth to protest, but all that came out was a low, " _Ow!_ " when Lance kicked his shin. 

"I'm gonna go put on those twenty layers now," Todd said to Kurt, but there was a tiny smile in his voice: His teasing was at Pietro's expense. He hopped up the stairs, three at a time. 

Logan threw himself back into his chair and speared three now-cold sausages with a claw, chewing meditatively. "I have no idea what in the hell's going on," he remarked generally, seeming quite cheerful about it. 

* * *

While the rest of the Brotherhood were inside coping with having Scott's invasion of their lair, Todd and Kurt walked, shoulder-to-shoulder, along the path Todd and Lance had journeyed several times since Winter Break began. He glanced at Kurt's hand- mittened, not gloved, to better disguise his shortage of fingers- which swung by his hip, slightly curled as though wishing to be held. 

His heart fluttered somewhere in the the back of his throat. Hearts definitely weren't supposed to be _there._ Was this how Lance felt all the time when he was around Pietro? No wonder he'd been so supportive of this endeavor. 

"No one comes this way," Todd told the taller boy. "If you wanted to turn off your, you know-" he tapped his own wrist, referring to the disguise module that the teleporter wore there. Sometimes, when it was just the two of them, Kurt would allow his real appearance to take the stage. 

Todd had been frustrated with him when mutants first came out to the human populus- _he_ had to look like himself all the time, come hell or high water. _Kurt_ had been given a loophole to enjoy all the benefits of his powers with none of the social drawbacks. 

It hadn't lasted, of course. He tried to be understanding. 

Kurt's hand remained empty, his tone wary as he said, "Maybe later." 

They walked in awkward silence after that. Things had felt strained since Pietro had thrown the house party. Todd just wanted to make things _normal_ again. He wanted to have his friend back. Messaging him frantically the night before, he'd been worried that his and Lance's hard work would have all gone to waste- but Kurt had, last minute, agreed to a Yuletide visit. 

He tried to inject a smile into his voice when he asked, "Have you heard back from home? Your..." what had Kurt called them? "Your mutti and vati doing alright?" 

At last, a real smile. "Mutti came down with a cold," he said. "But they're doing well. They sent me gifts... and something for you, as well." 

Todd stopped in his tracks, head cocked. " _Me?!_ " 

Kurt, too, halted. "Well, yes. I... It's sort of my idea, but... well." 

Seeing that he wasn't explaining himself very well, he reached underneath his sweater and pulled free a wide, flat packet wrapped in brown paper. "I asked them to send me this, you see-- I _hope_ you like it." 

He looked so earnest, gold shining through the false darkness of his eyes as he bit his lip and smiled, that Todd's heart sank to his toes before rappelling into the vicinity of his lungs. If it didn't stop this madness soon, he'd be forced to see a doctor. 

He just couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Kurt had _told_ his parents, all the way out in Germany, about his little... what? What was Todd to him? Friends, certainly, but they hadn't always been friends... 

His throat was dry and his fingers, clumsy as he accepted the package and struggled to unlace the twine, and cocked his head at what he found inside: a sheaf of artist's paper, creamy and thick and soft to the touch. Each page was subtly unique; some marbled with thin veins of candy pink or eggshell blue. 

Though he didn't recognize the embossed label stamped, tiny, on the bottom right corner of each page, he was a practiced enough thief to recognize when an item was truly valuable- too valuable to steal without significant risk. And it'd just been _given_ to him. 

"Wow," he whistled reverently, for once not in control of his face- no enormous smile or jokey expression, but a complete lapse. He couldn't begin to imagine the cost... but even as his mind calculated euros to dollars, a different vision came to mind. The things he could _paint..._

Kurt watched him concernedly. "If you don't like it," he began, accent thicker than ever in his falce nonchalance. "We could, erm, _probably_ send it back..." 

Todd's face shot up, mouth dropping open as he tripped over his tongue in hasty protest. "No _way,_ Nightcreepster; are you _nuts_?! This is... wow..." he laughed, a little incredulously, and carefully nestled the gift back in its packaging, opening his jacket to tuck it safely against his stomach and sternly reminding himself not to trip and fall into any snowdrifts. "This is... just. _Dude!_ " 

Kurt miled, a relieved, sweet thing that scrawled over his face and warmed his eyes. "Oh, good. You had me worried." 

"I'd hug you if it wouldn't wrinkle the--" Todd gestured to where the paper made his jacket bulk out, still struggling to get his words across. His voice was rather strained. 

"Oh!" Kurt's smile increased, and he stepped around Todd to hug him from behind, hands tight on his narrow shoulders. "Ja, Fröhliche Weihnachten!" 

"What's that mean?" Todd was almost too overwhelmed to appreciate the taller body pressed to his back, only at the last possible moment gaining the confidence to take one of the hands that gripped him in his own. Kurt didn't let go as they resumed walking side-by-side, clasped hands now swinging in the space between them. Todd's heart at last resumed its correct position in his chest, but beat at double the pace it was accustomed to. 

They talked as they walked, but Todd had difficulty focusing on what, precisely, was said. His voice had gone, embarrassingly, a tad high as he struggled to remain casual. He'd been knocked off his game but that was okay; Kurt was looking a bit dazed too. Both boys pointedly did not look at their hands. 

He noticed after a beat that Kurt was frowning at him, like he'd asked a question and was expecting an answer. "Huh?" 

"I asked where we are going. You were so determined that I come over today." 

Todd blinked; warmed; grinned. "We're going to a blast from the past, fuzz-boy. Come on." He tugged Kurt's hand, leading him off the path and deeper into the woods. "A real hidden treasure." 

The trees thickened as they headed deeper into the woods; they were alone save for the occasional bird peeping between branches. In summer, the place would be alive with rabbits and fawns, the things that they ate and the things that ate them. But this was the dead of winter in New York, and they had no company but one another and their frosty breath in the air. 

Todd, despite his earlier promise to himself, tripped and nearly fell over the first of the landmarks, covered in snow, and was only saved by Kurt's quick reflexes. "Thanks," he smirked. There was a hand on his forearm and another on his wrist, but it was the invisible tail winding his calf that had him so amused. 

Instead of backing up, he regained his balance and then crouched, knees splayed, to dust off the generator and give it a tap. "Almost there," he pointed, powering the machine on with a few false starts. "Just behind those trees." 

It took some poking and prodding to get the boxy device humming and warming-- Lance had had more practice with these stolen-- _borrowed_ \-- items. It'd taken them forever to get it all set up in the dark, though. Still, he knew he'd succeeded when Kurt, walking ahead of him, gasped quietly, then started calling excitedly for him in German. 

Grinning, Todd hopped after him, nodding in pride as all the lights he and his oldest brother had set up in the trees came to life, illuminating the small, dilapidated skeleton of a church that he'd once called home. 

The lights painted in bright relief the careful paintwork he'd made on the old brickwork. Shapes, stylized but unmistakable, covered the remainder of the brick and stone; too new to have lost any of its color. 

It was graffiti only in the most literal definition; complimenting the crumbled exterior, playfully winding in and out of the holes in the walls, the exposed gray wood. 

Though he'd swept the floor inside, they could see the recent snow had dusted the floor inside, both up and downstairs. The tower where a small bell had once hung, where he'd once slept, held a spring-abandoned bird's nest that he hadn't had the heart to move. 

"What is this place?" Kurt asked softly, touching the outline of a man painted on the most whole of the broken walls. 

"Home," Todd answered simply and, when Kurt looked at him, expression a mixture of wonder and puzzlement, he explained everything. How he'd come to town on a late-night train; numb from loss. He told Kurt of his mother. Of the steps that had lead to him meeting a warlike woman who called herself Mystique. 

"I never meant to stay," he said, sitting on one of the stones that had fallen off the church years before either of them had been born. "In Bayville, I mean. I didn't..." 

"Why did you?" Kurt asked, still walking around the tiny church in wonder. It was no warmer inside than it had been outside. The pews, both whole and broken, were just as snow-freckled and wildlife-touched as everything else about the place, but all had been touched by Todd's paints. A mish-mash of styles and color palates; experimental and known. A hidden castle barely a quarter of the size of the Brotherhood house. 

"Lance," Todd shrugged simply. "Well, that's not true. Mystique was cool at first, you know? It was kind of cool having someone around that fussed over me. Stuff didn't really get _bad_ bad until the others joined." 

That wasn't true either, but he'd had a poor grasp of 'good' and 'bad,' until Logan came around. Sure, she hit and yelled, but she fed him, didn't she? And it was cool, being around another mutant; one who looked different and was proud of it. 

"But mostly it was for Lance. He talks a big game but he was scared. I knew it from the first second I saw him. Small town tough with big britches to fill trying to fake-it-til-he-made-it in the big city. He needed me." 

"And Fred?" 

Todd felt his smile soften; it always did when Fred was in question. "He came later. _I_ needed _him_." 

Kurt tilted his head back, admiring the paints- both brush and spray- that continued onto what remained of the ceiling. One of the spotlights they'd set up, the one they'd put a pink gel sheet over, projected a shadow onto the pew behind him. The shadow's ears were pointed; its tail flicked curiously. 

Kurt and his shadow wandered the flat, dusty place up front that might once have held a piano, or a choir; all English settlers in bonnets and their best trousers making the walls ring with music from their home country. Maybe dances had once been held here; maybe children were taught counting and reading on slate boards during the week. Maybe. 

"I guess you didn't need paper," Kurt remarked at the explosion of color all around them. "What was it you said? The world is your canvas? I see what you mean." 

Was that what he thought? Todd hopped up, a movement so distinctly inhuman that it caught Kurt's eye, despite them both having grown quite accustomed to one another's oddities. He scrambled up the wall and into the bell tower, beckoning frantically. "Come on, yo; come see this." 

Kurt watched him skeptically for a moment, but did as asked; disappearing in a cloud of blue smoke and reappearing inside the tiny wooden room. He'd miscalculated, and ended up quite close: nose-to-nose and half in Todd's lap as he had him against the wall. 

Todd couldn't help but laugh at Kurt's abashed facial expression as he quickly gave Todd space; as much as he was able, anyway without sinking a knee into the dilapidated bird's nest, filled with feathers and broken shells. "It's okay. I don't mind cuddling." 

Lord, but Kurt was cute when he blushed. 

"You..." Kurt blushed further. "Your legs are very warm." 

"It's the pocket-warmers," Todd explained kindly. "Now pay attention. I used to sleep up here." 

Kurt frowned, looking dubiously around the cramped room at tree-level. Even with the bell removed and the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck around the walls, t would have been impossible for even Todd to stand up properly without hitting the ceiling. 

"Smaller space, easier to keep warm. Higher up to see any cops coming," Todd took a second to explain. "Now look!" 

Kurt had to move his feet, once more crushing Todd into the wall to see what was scrawled in ball-point pen over the wooden floor. He frowned and bent closer to read the messy scribbling, tiny to maximize room. 

"Is this a... tagebuch? A diary?" He read the recordings of Todd's days living in the tower. Poetry. Doodles. Scribbled out and written over. 

"Kinda. Sometimes I was... I don't know what I was thinking. My mom died so suddenly and didn't leave anything behind, and that scared me, I guess. I needed- _need_ to leave behind some proof that I'm... real. That I existed. Even if nobody but birds are gonna see it, you know? Even if it fades to nothing in the sun. But this-" he pulled open the collar of his jacket so that the corner of the paper packet was visible. "This is stuff made for permanence. For showing. This is... _This_ is what I wanted." 

Kurt's eyes had found the word 'family' in the middle of it all, larger than all the other words, and his eyes moved to follow the sentence, reading aloud: " _All... I... ever... wanted... was... a-_ " he looked up, and his eyes softened. "Oh, Todd." 

Todd wasn't one for turning on the waterworks, so it came as a surprise to both of them when he had to turn his face away, a lump in his throat. 

"That's not even what this is about," he explained, and heard the strain to his voice. He forced a smile. "The whole point was to show you a place where you can be yourself, you know. Lance is the only other person who knows this church exists, so if you wanted... you know. It was for _you_." 

He was failing badly. When had this become all about him? This was a present, damn it! He covertly wiped his eyes on his sleeve, looking up when he heard the soft click of a button. 

Kurt was once more his blue-furred self, the mitten from his right hand held in his left to access the disguise module. His tail coiled nervously around his ankles, and there was uncertainty in his lovely golden eyes. 

"Thank you Todd," he said, and took a step forward. Todd's breath hitched, for once speechless. When Kurt tried to put his mitten back on, Todd took his hand, examining his three fingers, long and dexterous and tipped with thick black nails. 

Daringly, he brought Kurt's hand to his face, turned his cheek into the palm, and looked up at Kurt, waiting, expectant and thrilled and terrified and sick and hopeful and very, very young. 

"Are you and I 'stuff made for permanence'?" Kurt asked quietly. He leaned, impossibly, closer. 

* * *

" _No,_ I did not _steal the stage lights_ from the _Midsummer Nights Dream_ set!" 

"Yeah, right, Alvers. I knew Hank shouldn't have taken you on as stagecrew." 

"I didn't! I just _borrowed_ them! Without asking. It's different." 

"You always do that thing with your face when you're lying, did you know that? You're not as punk as you think you are with your stupid jeans and purple hair." 

"My... what?" 

"Your purple hair! God, it's been bothering me since I _met_ you." 

"Summers, are you high? My hair is brown." 

"No! It's been like this... this _plum_ color all along... Um. Isn't it? Are you messing with me?" 

"Oh my God." 

"What!" 

"Oh my _God!_ Your goggles are red. You probably see everything weird. Ha! You probably think Pietro has red hair!" 

"He doesn't?" 

"This is the best day ever." 

* * *

Pietro was just organizing his laundry when Lance's voice carried through his open door: "Tro?" 

"Yeah?" their rooms were close enough together that they did not have to raise their voices to hear one another when both doors were open-- useful during late-nights like tonight when the other half of the household was already asleep. Heck; it was more or less how they'd gotten to... to whatever they were nowadays. 

"Can you come look at this?" 

With Lance, 'this' could mean anything from homework to a weird bruise to his even weirder new underwear. He wondered briefly if this was some lame pick-up line, but no; pick-up lines from Lance usually contained one or more horrific puns to groan over. And anyway, there was no flirting lilt to his tone. Pietro injected rather more reluctance into his own voice than he actually felt: "Do I _have_ to?" 

"Please?" 

Well, if he was going to be so polite about it. 

Not wanting to seem overeager, he took his sweet time sashaying down the hall and propped his hip on Lance's doorway, looking in. He'd unscrewed all but one of the bulbs in his lamp, saying too-bright lights aggravated his headaches. Personally, Pietro thought that trying to read in such dim lighting probably wasn't doing him any favors, either, but Lance could get grumpily stubborn when one helpfully pointed out the obvious. 

With his back to the door, cross-legged on his bed, the Avalanche was in his typical winter sleep attire: tank top, boxers, knobbly ankle socks, long hair knotted up into a bun and held with an elastic. It wasn't his most attractive look, but it made Pietro feel fond just the same. Blue eyes followed the thin white stretchmarks that capped his olive shoulders and felt an odd urge to touch them-- not sexually, but just because he wanted the warm reassurance of Lance's skin under his fingers. It was an indulgence he rarely allowed himself. 

"What is it?" he asked, clenching his hands tightly so that they wouldn't betray him, and stood carefully on the mess that made up Lance's bedroom floor, not touching the other mutant. Through a gap in the blinds he saw that, outside, a new snowfall had begun against the black of the night sky. 

In response, Lance held out a sheet of lined paper, covered with his dark, blocky handwriting. Pietro took the page. "Homework again? You've been doing tolerably in English this semester- you're welcome for that- and--" 

He fell silent when his scanning eyes met the first words on the sheet: ~~**Dear**~~ **_To Wanda:_**

This wasn't homework. This was a letter. To Pietro's _sister._

Pietro didn't know how to respond to this completely unexpected development. Even his rapid-fire brain failed in devising an adequate solution in the fraction of a second he allotted himself. Speechless, he instead turned his attention back to the mess of a letter. 

And what a mess it was; every word crossed out, sometimes twice; second-guessed, scribbled over. Bizarrely painstaking detail was spent in describing the house they lived in, from the tiles of the bathroom to the counters in the kitchen. Somewhere down the line, Lance had apparently remembered he'd had a point to the letter and had stopped describing the decor to instead focus on the inhabitants. Fred and Todd were described in efficient, if not especially flowery, detail. 

It was here that Lance had stopped his writing altogether. 

"I'm bad at this," the older boy admitted with an embarrassed laugh, turning to face Pietro. "I don't really know how to write a letter. I'm trying." 

Oh, that much was evident in the scribbles and in the ink staining Lance's fingers. He really was trying-- the question was _why._

"What are you doing this for?" Pietro asked, and even to him, his voice sounded strained. Lance frowned. 

"Sorry if I'm overstepping or whatever," he began cautiously. "But Todd and Fred were making her stuff, so I figured..." 

This was news to Pietro. He resisted the urge to wake the other boys, to demand they show him what they'd been working on. Wanda had been his secret- filled with shame and self loathing and nightmares- for so long that he didn't know how to process this easy acceptance and attention from his housemates, as though the existence of a new Maximoff was just as palatable as Fred bringing home a half-wild cat. They'd never even met her, and they were writing her _letters_? 

"Did I upset you?" Lance asked. "Never mind; forget it." He tried to pull the paper from Pietro's hand, but the younger mutant resisted. 

"You didn't," he said, forcing himself to speak slowly in order to avoid saying anything he might regret. "I just want to know _why_ you're all doing this. She's not... I _told_ you she was dangerous and unpredictable and... do you really want to be on her radar?" 

At this, Lance snorted derisively. "We're _all_ dangerous, Tro." 

"You don't get it. You can break a building. She can break your brain. She can make you break buildings for her. Her own building-breaking machine." 

"S'not her fault." 

No, it wasn't her fault, no more than it was Pietro's that he was fast, or Fred's that he was strong. This was the life fate had given them. "Our _father_ couldn't handle her. You think you can? Logan's crazy to be messing with her in the first place. The best thing to do would be to forget she even exists." 

Why did saying that cause a sharp stab of pain in his chest? He'd been repressing these feelings for far too long for them to come boiling up now. It was much easier to be angry; to be condescending and then apathetic, to laugh at the very _idea._ But before he could even get started, he saw Lance's eyes, soft and knowing and staring right through him, right into his fucking soul. 

He _hated_ when Lance did that; hated himself more for allowing it. He was only ever meant to be the occasional quick fuck in the back of a Jeep, to let off some extra steam. Now, thinking of him in those simplified terms made Pietro feel dirty and rotten. 

_Father wouldn't approve at all._

Lance's eyes were still spelunking through all the soft tissue that Pietro fiercely guarded with chains and brick and glass and metal; barbed wire and attack dogs and Keep Out signs every couple of inches. He'd been the first to ever suspect that Pietro even _had_ a heart, kept fiercely under lock and key as it were. 

He'd been too emotionally raw all day, and it'd taken a toll on him. He was _exhausted._

"Fine. I'll help you write your letter. But not tonight; I need sleep." 

He didn't always sleep, so Lance accepted it easily. Pietro merely added: "You're crazy to get involved with any of us. If you were sane, you'd run." It didn't feel good to say, but he owed the boy fair warning. "I can't protect you from my family." 

That he even wanted to do so was perhaps the craziest thing of all. 

Lance set his letter down, pride stung at the implication that he _needed_ protection. He'd cultivated his tough-boy image so deliberately that he himself believed it from time to time, despite it being paper-thin to anyone who really knew him. "Wasn't asking you to." He sounded sulky. 

Pietro was halfway out the room when the weight of the new gift in his pocket brought him pause, curiosity re-igniting. 

“So what _does_ ‘zero-three-one-nine' mean?” Pietro asked from the doorway, and watched the rapid flush of red that ran up the back of Lance's neck before he turned back to regard him. 

“It’s stupid,” Lance mumbled. “You’ll just make fun of me.” 

“Hey!” Pietro protested, stepping into the room to reach for Lance’s chin, guiding his face back so that he had no choice but to meet Pietro’s eyes. “It’s my present! I get to decide whether it’s stupid or not.” 

Lance grumpily mumbled something that sounded a little like ‘ _brat_.’ Pietro smiled. He was indeed a brat, and quite proud to be so. 

“It’s a date,” Lance admitted. “March nineteenth.” 

Pietro racked his brains, trying to think of what had happened the previous March. He was drawing a blank. Mystique was still in their lives then; the Brotherhood was newly formed… 

Lance looked a little disappointed at Pietro’s blank expression. Pietro wasn’t accustomed to guilt; it was an emotion he had very little use for. So when it rose its simpering head, he had no choice but to soften a fraction. “Remind me?” 

Lance licked his lips nervously, cleared his throat, gave an embarrassed smile. “It was the date that you uh. You first kissed me.” 

Pietro blinked; once, twice. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

Their first kiss (in the Jeep, of course) had been an ugly, clashing thing; all teeth in lips and fists in hair. They’d kissed like Pietro fought- dirty and tricking and mean. 

At what point had that softened into this new, alien thing; fragile as a wobbling colt? 

Pietro held Lance’s face in hand and looked at him: he of the Soft Eyes and big heart and cheesy, bumbling, overstated tokens of affection. Never before had Pietro felt unworthy of admiration and pursuit. Never before had he seen fit to soften his sharp tongue. This thing, whatever it was, that he had with Lance Alvers was completely uncharted territory. He cared whether his words hurt Lance. He cared whether Lance was happy. 

“I see,” Pietro said, running his thumb up and down the flat plane of Lance’s temple. He knew his face so well now that he could have drawn it with his eyes closed. He wasn’t good at kind words. They weren’t part of his vocabulary. Nobody had ever taught them to him. “I won’t make fun of you for that.” 

It was easier to instead take the initiative and bring his mouth to Lance’s; gentle presses of lips overlapping, one kiss after another after another. To hold his face and stroke his hair and lower him down onto the bed, crawling over him as he kissed him the way he should have back in March. 

They kissed in the way that Lance loved: generous and warm and full. 

After the many long minutes following, Pietro lay in the dark with Lance’s bare back to his chest. Based on the quality of his breathing, the other boy wasn’t asleep yet, but would be soon. Pietro traced his collarbone, breathed in the campfire scent of his hair. His chest felt so full that it almost hurt. Only then did he trust himself to speak. 

“Merry Christmas, Lancelot.” 

“Happy holidays, Tro.”


	14. Metal King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not with a bang, but a boom.

Erik walked in great, powerful strides, shoulders squared, from slim black car to building. The institute's employees must have seen his approach on their monitors, because they'd already raised the heavy gate for him and sent their best and brightest out for conversation. 

"Good evening, sir," they greeted deferentially, uniforms pristine, heads bowed. He could smell the iron stench of fear mingled with their sweat, despite the chilled temperature. He didn't deign to acknowledge their human niceties, striding past and inside without so much as a backwards glance. 

He knew he'd put off his annual visit for too long this year. The sun was already setting on New Years' Eve, and it took quite a lot of paperwork to keep a private institution such as this running. The young man- barely older than his Avalanche- manning the metal detectors knew to turn off his machines as Erik approached. 

"R-right this way, sir," he stuttered, holding the front doors open for him. They'd have to have a Talk about security later-- just because Mystique, a shape-shifter, was in his employ, did not mean that _every_ shape-shifter stood on the right side of the brewing war. But for now, this lapse benefitted him. 

He had not seen his teenaged daughter in twelve months. He didn't intend to see her today, despite now being in the same building. How old was she now? He mentally subtracted the year of her birth from the current one. Fifteen? No; sixteen. She'd be seventeen in the spring. Seeing physical evidence of her aging made him feel odd, his mind having difficulty correlating the childlike presence he interpreted her as with her ever-changing frame, and so he avoided it when possible. In his mind, she would always be his little, witchy girl. 

Though he'd made no appointment, the humans he'd employed as the head officials greeted him in the main office with cooler heads than their lessers. "Sir." 

He held out a gloved palm, as always straight to business. "I assume you've all your _forms_ ready for me?" 

They did, and it earned them a brisk nod. He prized efficiency above all other traits. 

He had his own desk in the front office, and they kept it tidy, despite the infrequency of his visits. He sat and began to work, drawer unlocking and fountain pen manifesting in his open hand through silently directed power. 

A lot of money went into keeping a mutant like his daughter institutionalized. There were the tutors; the chefs; the nurses; the security. He allowed a scientist to perform experiments on her regularly with the understanding that she would not be irreparably harmed. And that was just the tip of the iceberg. 

Financially speaking, it'd have been wiser instead to suspend her in a sleeping state, as was the case of Charles' half-brother, Juggernaut. Maybe someday he would, but the doctors he'd hired had explained that long-term immersion in a chemical bath could damage a still-growing body. The science simply had not been perfected yet. 

Despite his earlier desire not to look at her, curiosity piqued and, between one signature and the next, he found himself reaching for a security monitor bolted into the nearest wall. A black screen brightened into the green glow of ultraviolet readings, and in them he saw a fetal shape, still as death. 

"She is asleep?" he asked. It was not yet six in the evening. 

"The sound of fireworks overexcites her," explained the head official. "We sedate her early on holidays." 

"Turn on the lights in her room," he ordered. She knew better than to argue. 

The security camera blinked out, and then back on as the lighting changed. There she was: his Wanda, in her marbled room, tucked under a thick gray blanket on her slim bed. As when she was small, she slept on her right side to face a phantom of her twin's bed, an arm extended as though reaching for him in dreams. 

When the siblings had shared a nursery, Erik would often enter in the mornings to see his offspring's fingers loosely interlocked in the space between their beds. Pietro feared the dark but was too ashamed to ask for a light; his sister's hold soothed him. 

"What's that she's holding?" he asked, after an unemotional moment of regarding her face, the loop of long, black hair falling over her eyes; the way her lips parted in deep breaths. She cradled something to her chest; it appeared to be comprised of sea-green plush. 

"A soft toy, sir. I believe it's a cat, hand-stitched by her brother." 

This was such an unexpected response that he turned in his seat to regard the head official. Daisy, her name was; a whimsical name gravely at odds with her stern, humorless face and close-cropped gray hair. 

"When has she been in contact with Pietro, Daisy?" Erik asked. To her credit, she did not tremble under his focused attention, though she did lick her lower lip; a nervous tic that suggested she was, even now, remembering what had happened to Dave. The tutor had, in a fatal moment of frustration, struck his daughter across the face four years prior. 

Employees that displeased Erik often found themselves wishing they hadn't. 

"Pietro Maximoff and his housemates have sent two corresponding videotapes to Wanda this year," Daisy recited. "Both videos were screened for content before they were deemed appropriate to show her. Wanda reacted positively when a cat was shown in the second video. When Pietro heard of this, he sent her that toy as a gift." 

"And you permitted this?" 

Another lip-lick; a slight twitch of eye in socket. Despite her stately resolve, he was making Daisy second-guess all her decisions. _Good._ One never wanted employees to be too sure of themselves. 

"I had no reason to believe that you would disapprove, sir. This did not defy any rule you have put in place. Shall I behave differently in the future?"

Erik studied her for another moment before returning to the monitor, and declined to answer her question. Looking around the room now, he saw that there were pieces of paper taped to her previously plain walls. 

"Letters from her new _friends,_ I presume? You'll have copies that I can read now?" 

"Of course, sir." She hastened to fetch them. "Again, all content given to Wanda has been thoroughly screened beforehand-" 

He took the small stack of photocopies. There was a juvenile attempt at a letter from his Avalanche, and a signed, stylized drawing of the four boys from his Toad. There was also a thin book of comics, the kind that might come inside a cereal box, of a young superpowered heroine. The note attached read: _Deer Wanda, I think you will like these. They are cool. I can send more. Love from Freddie._

It was all so... _childish._

"Who is influencing them?" Erik asked. "Pietro knows better than this." 

Daisy obviously knew this question was coming. Her answer was prompt. "A Mr. Logan Howlett, sir. He's visited Wanda three times now." 

Ah. Of course. 

Victor had informed him that Charles' little pet was staying in his boys' home. He kept meaning to investigate the situation further, but it'd been low on his priority list. Just another of Charles' foolish games, no doubt. But for it to extend to his daughter? 

"Show me the footage of his visits." 

Raven would be expecting him back shortly; his visits here never lasted long. She'd simply have to wait longer than expected. 

"Right away, sir. Would you like for me to ban him from visiting again?" 

"That remains to be seen." 

* * *

"You know what _sucks?_ " Lance muttered into Pietro's ear, pressing close to be heard over the thudding music, talking, and laughter of the teens around them. 

They were reclining on the circular leather sofa of Xavier Mansion's "entertainment room." This was, apparently, different from the theater or ballroom, though Lance was still struggling to figure out what exactly that difference was. It seemed to have almost as many books as the library, almost as many instruments as the music room. Rich people were something else. 

Pietro had been in a _mood_ all night, but he turned to look at Lance at the question, hair and teeth glowing purple under the blacklight. "What?" 

Lance offered a fuchsia smirk of his own. "Vacuums." 

At Pietro's expression of deepest disgust, Lance folded over himself laughing. His eyes- his most lethal weapon- were all crinkled again. "Your _face!_ " he snickered. 

Despite his firm resolve, a smile cracked Pietro's stony features, and that just set Lance off again. He tipped forward, forehead to Pietro's shoulder, and pulsed with giggles. 

Pietro rolled his eyes fondly and pushed Lance's cowlick out of his eye. "You suck _worse_ than vacuums." He lightly scraped his nails over Lance's scalp the way he liked, petting him like a cat, and Lance sighed, leaning contentedly into his hand. 

And then Pietro looked up and saw that they were being watched. Kitty, dancing with Sam, was beaming at them like they were the cutest puppies in a basket. Fred, in the corner talking to Amara, kept glancing, soft-eyed, in their direction. Rahne, cross-legged on the opposite arm of the sofa, wore a knowing smirk. 

Panic flared like swan's wings knocking the underside of his ribs with bone-breaking force. Pietro shoved Lance off of him, nearly sending him toppling off the sofa. "Fuck _off,_ Alvers. _God_." 

Conversation around them abruptly died, though the music continued valiantly on. People were definitely looking at them now. Shit. Time to save face. "You've been drinking too much. You're so annoying." 

Then he stepped over Lance's inelegantly sprawled legs and left the room in a hurry. 

The panicked swan continued to thrash inside his ribs in time with his heart, making a ruin of his organs, churning his stomach. He felt the pulse in his ear, around his earring. He needed air, and fast. 

* * *

"Thank you again for coming today," Hank said, the relief as evident in his voice now as it had been upon arrival ninety minutes prior. Logan had just wrangled Roberto and Bobby out of the Danger Room, where they'd been trying to make the entire building rain. (Why they'd tried that room instead of Cerebro, Logan would never know.)  
"Charles and Ororo went on vacation, and then the kids all wanted to throw a New Years party... It's so much easier with you here to help." 

"I wouldn't say 'easier'," Logan muttered, watching as Fred, talking animatedly with Amara, gesticulated too wildly as they walked down the hallway and knocked a light fixture off a wall. "I brought four troublemakers of my own." 

"Oh please, like four could make a difference in this ruckus. Really. I'm glad to have you here." 

Hank smiled at him with such a warm sincerity that Logan looked down at his boots, shuffling his toes. "Aw; hell, Fuzzball, you're makin' me blush. Fair warning: They say the one you spend New Years with is the one you'll spend the _whole_ year with. Don't go complaining when you can't get rid of me later." 

Hank put a huge, soft hand under Logan's chin, tilting his face up so that their eyes met. "I don't mind that," he told his colleague quietly. "You are... And I hope I'm not being too forward, but I truly consider you to be my closest and dearest friend." 

Something caught in Logan's throat, looking into his friend's dark blue eyes. He brought a hand up, rested it on the outside of Hank's large wrist, and held him back. "Yeah," he agreed softly, a little smile playing on his face. "I'm glad to hear it. I really--" 

A loud squeal of brakes outside caused them to jump. Just around the corner of their hallway nook was the main entrance, and they heard the double front doors bang open now with almost explosive force. "Don't worry, guys!" Tabby's boisterous voice echoed through the vast space. "I'm here. The party can start now." 

"Hell," Logan rubbed his eyelids with the pads of his thumbs as excited X-kids raced around him to greet the lone wolf. He liked Tabby, really, even though she _did_ still insist on calling him 'Badger'. And he liked having her turn up to events. It eased his worries to see her still alive and, apparently, thriving. But when there was a Tabby, there was-- 

"Fireworks!" Jubilee chirped, barreling into the blonde's embrace. "Oh, c'mon, please, you gotta blow some stuff up, Tabs! I'll set off some fireworks..." 

Hank's hand on his elbow steadied him, and Logan felt a surge of relief. Hank wouldn't let anything bad happen. Not to Logan, not to himself, and, most importantly, not to the kids. He couldn't ask for more. 

"C'mon," Logan muttered. "I need a drink." Catching Hank's wrist, he towed the much larger mutant towards the near-empty, industrial-sized kitchen. The party had been too impromptu for hiring any caterers, so the kids had improvised with snacks and punch. He smiled at the untouched pile of Kitty's unidentifiable baking looming menacingly in one corner, ignored in favor of crackers and popcorn and chips and cheese. The plucky gal just kept on trying her damndest in all that she did. 

He rummaged around in a cabinet to find his hidden stash of beer- now dusty- and looked up when he heard a familiar throat clearing. 

"I wanted to tell you about the play-" Hank was saying, but Scott, in the hallway entrance, made eye-contact with Logan and then, very deliberately, looked towards Lance. The sullen teen was over by the sliding doors that overlooked the pool, caught in the act of pouring a mini-bottle into his cup of punch. 

"Hold that thought." Logan held a palm up to cut Hank off mid-sentence. "I'll be right back, Bigfoot, but I gotta deal with something real quick." 

He strode around him, walking the ten or so paces to Lance's side, where he nudged him lightly with a hip. "Hey, Rocky." 

Lance flinched and jerked, cup sloshing, eyes wild as he stowed the bottle behind his back. "Logan! What's up?" 

Logan sighed. Lance wasn't looking too great, and the smell of rum was pretty strong. Who's room had he raided for it? 

"Come on, kiddo." He took the plastic cup from Lance's unresisting hand and set it down on the countertop, trusting Hank or Scott to deal with it. "You know 'what's up'." 

Lance, knowing he was caught, cringed. By the scent on his breath and the haziness to his eyes, this was not his first drink tonight. Bitter disappointment flared anew in Logan's gut. 

"Come with me." Logan took his arm and directed him out to the balcony, where they could be alone. Lance shifted his weight from foot to foot. His face was a kaleidoscope of emotion- Anger, worry, fear, defensiveness- before settling back on anger. It was his most familiar mask. 

"You know you don't have to _scold_ me like a-" he began hotly, but Logan cut him off. 

"What's wrong?" 

That stopped Lance's little tantrum short. " _Huh_?" 

"Are you okay? How's your head?" 

Confusion, and the cold night air, colored Lance's face pink. "Look," he said dismissively, planting a hand on Logan's shoulder to push him away. "Don't play games with me. Just yell at me or hit me or whatever and let me go." 

Logan, unmoved despite Lance's forceful shoving, glared up at his charge. His patience was reaching an end. "No, why don't _you_ stop playing games with _me_? I thought we'd been through this already. You let me help you when shit gets too much, and I don't let you fuck your life up too bad. I'm not my best on New Years and I need you to be straight with me." 

Lance blinked at him, puzzled. His hand fell slack off Logan's shoulder. The alcohol was clouding his ability to think. Then- "Oh. The uh. The fireworks." He'd clearly forgotten the story of Logan's PTSD struggle. "Shit. I'm-- are _you_ gonna be okay? I can tell Tabby not to--" 

"Hank promised to stay by my side tonight. I think I'll be just fine, but I'm relying on him to keep me in check." _Like you're supposed to trust me to keep_ you _in check._ It remained unsaid, but implied. 

Lance bit his lip, popped a few knuckles, and then seemed, slowly, to deflate. He looked suddenly tired, haggard. He looked like he was hurting. 

"What happened, kid?" Logan asked again, softening his gruff tone. 

Lance shook his head, hair falling over his eyes, unwilling or unable to spill the beans. 

"Was it Pietro?" 

Lance's face shot up so fast that his neck clicked. "How did you--" 

"Lance, I've got eyes. " _And ears, and a nose, and_ \-- "Give me some credit, please." 

Color bloomed once again on that long face. His voice was a little higher than normal when he demanded, "How _long_ have you-" 

"It really doesn't matter. Did you two fight?" 

The look on Lance's face was answer enough. Logan took a deep breath, exhaled. He'd never been good at this kind of stuff. "Alright," he said. "Alright. C'mere." 

"I'm--" Lance stuttered, a little awkward as he was pulled down into a hug. "I don't need- I'm... _Okay_." 

He sagged into Logan, trusting his guardian to hold his weight. "Shit." There was a threat of tears in his voice, so Logan thumped his back, firmly, rhythmically. "He just. He gets so pissed at me for stupid shit. I don't... I guess I keep fucking up." 

"Sounds like he might be the one fucking up," Logan said carefully. He didn't know the situation, but he had some pretty good guesses. He saw a glimpse of Scott watching them through the window behind Lance's back, and waved him away. "Do you need me to take you home?" 

Lance shook his head. "I'm really fine--" 

"A mini-bottle of Captain Morgan says differently," Logan remarked wryly. He gave the chain around Lance's neck a tug. "Seriously. It's okay to walk away if this is too much. He'll be okay. I'm worried about _you_." 

"Sometimes I think he hates me," Lance admitted, and then cringed. "I shouldn't have said that." 

"It shouldn't feel that way, kid," Logan's heart felt heavy. If the two stopped seeing each other, the fragile peace of their household might shatter. Still, if it was this painful for Lance, then maybe... "Are you gonna talk to him about it?" 

Lance groaned and pulled away, standing up straight and swiping at his eyes with the back of his glove. "Do I _have_ to?" 

"I think so." Logan watched the kid pull himself together, breathing through his nose, centering himself, blinking back the tears until they were gone. "Okay," he said, more to himself than to Logan. "Okay." 

Logan reached up to pat his stubbled cheek. Tall as he was, _strong_ as he was, he was still very much a teenager. "I believe in you, Rocky. One-hundred percent. I'm here for you." 

Lance offered a shaky, shy smile. He looked a little embarrassed, now that he'd worked past the lump in his throat. "Geez, dad. Quit being so sappy. It's fine." 

Now Logan was the one who's throat was, strangely, full. His chest felt tight. "Oh," he said, his voice strained. "You know me. Can't help it." 

Lance grinned. 

The glass balcony door slid open, and Hank blinked out at them both. "Are you two alright? It's cold outside." 

"Alvers!" Scott called, acting as though he'd only just arrived. "Come on; they're putting on a movie in the theater." 

"Which movie?" 

"The Pebble and the Penguin', apparently." Scott winced, made a face. "Please don't make me watch it with all the kids by myself." 

Lance laughed; a sharp bark of sound, and entered the mansion after him, leaving Hank and Logan outside in the dark. 

"Stars are bright tonight," Hank said benignly, looking up at the sky. 

"Yeah," Logan wiped furiously at his eyes and tried to sniff discreetly. "You got that right, Bigfoot" 

* * *

Pietro, hidden in the back of the theater-room, watched bitterly as Lance sobered up during the movie and spent the countdown to New Years goofing off with the X-brats. They all seemed fairly fond of him, even Summers-- arguing and bickering like actual brothers.

He laughed at the stupid cartoon and even looked concerned during the climactic moments. He was so _genuine_ \- every emotion he felt was always right on the surface, just like Logan's. They really were two peas in a pod. If it weren't for his mutation, he could have been normal. He'd've grown up to be some family guy working a nine-to-five, protective of his wife and kids, occasionally bringing up tales of his wayward youth at dinner parties. 

Pietro tried not to wince when Kitty Pryde laughed and tipped her head closer to Lance's, saying something inane about the movie. He _did_ wince when whatever she'd said made Lance grin and poke her cheek. After batting him away, she rested her cheek on his shoulder, sleepy and cuddly. 

Lance could still have an almost normal life, outside of belonging to Magneto. 

Pietro could not, and it was time to grow up and accept that. 

"Wow. Who pissed in your cornflakes?" Tabby, having gorged herself on snacks and good company, flung herself bodily into Pietro's beanbag chair until they were both smushed together, ankle to hip to shoulder. "I haven't seen a face that sour in some time. Lighten up; it's a party!" 

"Go find someone else to bother," Pietro snapped, ineffectively pushing at her long legs when she crossed them over his lap. "Don't you have a girlfriend?" 

"It's fine. Amara's not worried I'm gonna leave her for _you._ " 

She smelled, as always, a little of tequila and gunpowder. Her blonde hair stood out from her head like a lion's mane, occasionally getting tangled in her numerous piercings, and she cracked her bubblegum loudly in his ear. "I missed you, foxface. You never call, you never write..." She glanced slyly from where he sat to his unobstructed view of Lance in the row ahead of them. "I mean I know you're busy _doing_ other things, but--" 

"What do you know about it?" he again attempted to pull away from her, but the enormous beanbag seemed to be sucking him to the center of the earth, ass-first. 

"I _know-_ " she leaned in to whisper conspiratorially into his ear, "- what your underwear in the back seat of a certain Jeep looks like. Poor baby. Did you go and catch feelings?" 

When he sneered at her, she smirked and chucked his chin. "Grow a spine and the balls to match it," she suggested helpfully. "Or sooner or later he's gonna leave you for someone nicer." 

This time, they were both watching as Sam, eyes hopeful, rested his head on Lance's other shoulder. _For fuck's sake..._

It took Tabby a lot of inelegant effort and some creative swearing to extract herself from the beanbag. "It's almost midnight!" she shouted loudly to the room, her gold naval ring winking as her fists punched the air. "Who's ready to _blow some shit up_?!" 

The response was instantaneous. The younger mutants, cheering, all raced for the doors, singing penguins forgotten. Exchanging a harried glance, Scott and Kitty also rose to prevent any serious property damage. When Lance tried to stand, Tabby pushed him back down into his chair. 

"Not you, my little sweet potato," she said firmly. "You got some end-of-the-year business to clear up." 

She shut the door after herself and went to follow the group of stampeding, superpowered youths with intentions of pyrotechnics in their hearts. Lance gulped and, alone at last, finally dared turn to meet Pietro's eyes. 

* * *

Hank sank back against the sofa, wine glass in hand, an arm slung around Logan's shoulders. His muscular chest vibrated against Logan's ear as he sang boisterously in deepest tenor, " _Should auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind_?" 

A few kids were dotted here and there around the room with them, watching the Times Square celebration on television. Soon, it would be time for the ball to drop. 

Most of the kids were outside with Tabby and Jubilee. Every few minutes or so, a premature firework would burst, illuminating them in pinks and purples and greens through the picture window. When that happened, Hank's arm would tighten around Logan and he'd sing or talk louder. 

Currently, he was tipsily attempting to explain the plot of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ to a bemused-looking Fred. 

"So then he's turned into a donkey-" 

"A what now?" 

"A donkey. We're still trying to figure out how we'll manage the costume change. Maybe Lance will be able to strap him into his mask before the smoke clears-- anyway. Yes. So he's a donkey, and--" 

A dozen explosions, with the percussive force of machine-gun fire, rattled the mansion. Logan's teeth clenched; his muscles shivered. 

"Tabby, you _clod!_ " someone outside shouted. "It's not _time_ yet--" 

There was laughter. Logan felt ill. He had to look at his hands to be sure he hadn't accidentally clawed Hank, or the sofa. 

"Hey," Hank murmured, wine-warmed mouth close to Logan's ear. "You're safe. You're with me." 

Logan pressed his eyes shut tight and nodded. Maybe next year Hank would agree to rent a hotel room with him, and just wait out the night like that. 

There was another explosion, this one closer. Logan actually felt his claws press against the underside of his skin, begging to rip free. Hank gasped, and Logan realized that _this_ particular BAMF was in the room with them. When blue smoke cleared, Fred and the professors saw two teenagers sprawled over the coffee table, having sent trays of hors d'oeuvres rolling. 

Todd and Kurt were wound tightly around one another in a distinctly amorous embrace. Todd was, inexplicably, wearing the flag of France as a cape, and Kurt's tail was enthusiastically wriggling up the back of it. Evidentially, in the heat of the moment, Kurt had lost control and teleported them both. 

Logan cleared his throat, and the two sprang apart, hands flying in unison to their mouths as though to belatedly hide their activity. 

"Professor!" Kurt squeaked, voice a full octave higher than normal. Then, in another flash of blue, he disappeared, leaving Todd alone on the table to blush and cringe. 

Todd dared guiltily meet Logan's folded arms and stern expression, before a dopey grin started to cross his own face. 

"Happy New Year!" Todd shouted brazenly, and leapt dramatically over all their heads- sending crackers and mini-cheeses raining down- to cling to the stairwell. He brandished an imaginary musket. "And Vive la Toad!" 

"Oh, dear," Hank sighed, as Todd scrambled out of sight. On the television, the ball began to drop at last. New Yorkers counted the seconds down. "It appears they've found the stage props." 

Wordlessly, Logan offered him the half-empty wine bottle. 

* * *

Pietro busied himself with tidying the theater, sweeping up spilled popcorn and tossing all the beanbags into the corner where they belonged. 

On the wall-sized screen, cartoon penguins musically celebrated love achieved; evil, conquered; pebbles, acquired. It was easier to watch this than turn and face Lance, who was looking at him from beside the popcorn maker. 

"Tro-" Lance began hesitantly, and Pietro winced. _Here we go..._

"Yes?" he asked, keeping his tone upbeat but his eyes on the theater around them. So much popcorn. What a mess. 

"I-" Lance tried. Sometimes he struggled with words. When he knew he was going to be talking a lot, he usually practiced for hours beforehand. Now he was going in blind. "Tonight was... Weird, right? For us." 

Pietro considered blowing the question off. _Must just be you, Lancevelanch._ If he dismissed it enough, maybe Lance would take the hint and drop it. 

Instead, he said nothing. Let Lance find the words on his own for once. 

"I mean," he said after a moment, fidgeting. "I'm just... Oh, fuck it. Tro, why do you get so _mad_ at me, when I'm not even doing anything? Always shoving me away-" 

"I told you; we've got to keep this stuff quiet," Pietro interrupted curtly. "I can't have you slobbering all over me. It's hard to know who's watching, who's got an inside line." 

"I find it hard to believe your dad would even give a shit about whether or not someone hugs you! It's not like he's ever gonna do it!" 

Pietro turned so suddenly that Lance flinched, and then bit his lip, abashed at the harsh truth of what he'd just said. "Sorry," he mumbled, at the patented Maximoff death-glare. "You know what I mean, though. I don't think it's your dad. I think it's _you._ Do I embarrass you? Do you even _like_ me?" 

If he'd wanted this last sentence to be a slap, he'd failed. His voice cracked, and in it, Pietro heard the boy's truth. He was hurting, had been doing so for a long time, and Pietro was the one delivering the bruises. 

Well. He supposed he'd known this day was coming. Lance was a soft thing, all heart-fire no matter what he told himself, and he was involved with someone made of cold, jagged glass shards. 

_Pathetic,_ a voice that was almost- but not quite- Pietro's sneered in his mind, and Pietro shuddered, a hand flying to his ear. 

No. He was not Erik Lehnsherr. He _would not_ be. 

"Lance," he said, and he forced himself to look at the teenager, to meet his eyes. "I'm... Sorry. I can't be what you want. I feel like I made that clear when we started..." Started _what?_ Kissing in the Jeep? Backing each other up in fights? Holding one another through night terrors? _Feeling_ things? "Started... this. But if you've changed your mind, I don't blame you." _I'm setting you free. Please go find someone with a soul. I never deserved you anyway._

Lance's eyes widened. He forgot, for once, to pose and posture, to look cool and strong and intimidating. In that moment, he looked little more than a boy who'd been beaten and traded and abandoned all his life, frozen in the raw knowledge that it was about to happen again, and that he was no more prepared for it than he'd been the first dozen rounds. 

_You'd think he'd have gotten used to it by now._ There it was again, that cold serpent's voice coiling Pietro's ear like a livewire, sinking its little fangs in. "It's okay," he prompted, smiling encouragingly. He felt his ice-heart crack and then die, or rather; _didn't_ feel it. Felt nothing. 

Lance's lips quivered. "I--" 

Pietro braced himself, prepared his carefree smile as he waited for the shoe to drop. He'd never been dumped before. It seemed fitting that this boy be the one to do it. 

"I love you," Lance whispered, and hung his head miserably. 

* * *

Erik wisped through the narrow, empty house like vapor. Locks didn't trouble him; a twitch of his finger and the metal bowed to its king. 

Changes had been made since he'd last been within this house. Walls repaired; repainted. Everywhere he looked he saw something new: an airing cupboard; a shelf; a window-box. 

A pile of freshly laundered jeans in multiple sizes were tossed on the sofa, and he would have passed it without notice had he not caught a glimpse of gray among the darker threads. He plucked the hair between his gloved fingertips, barely a quarter of an inch in length. Some sort of animal? 

Dropping the hair, he followed the natural path of the house into the kitchen, now clean and well-stocked. He snorted aloud when he saw the dozens of photographs taped to the refrigerator, and stepped closer to investigate. His son featured in a good number of these pictures; candid shots of him and the other boys walking, speaking, cleaning, eating. There was one of him in some sort of costume, a sour look on his face as a middle-aged, blue-furred mutant pinned the length of the sleeves. 

Erik shifted through the pictures. It'd been some time since he'd laid eyes upon his Brotherhood, his small army, his future. They'd grown. Children seemed to do too much of that, in his opinion. 

The Wolverine himself- a short man with a permanently stubbled face- was in many of these images, mingling with the boys. He had a stern, grumpy face, but he often looked to be just a breath short of laughter. There were pictures of him with an arm around the boys' necks, ruffling their hair, flopped on the sofa with them and some buckets of popcorn. Erik still didn't know what to make of him, but he took one of the photographs and pocketed it for later study. 

Pietro... There was a photograph of him wearing just a towel, emerging from the shower, middle finger raised at the photographer. There was something about his mouth, set in an annoyed line but quirked at the corners as though he were fighting a smile, that reminded Erik of the twin's late mother. He snorted again, more forcefully this time, and turned his back on the refrigerated album. 

He left the kitchen and made a slow investigation of the other rooms as he went, gleaning nothing more than a tale of domestic life. Homework assignments. Scripts for a school play. A deflated basketball. Exercise equipment. He made quick survey of the bedrooms, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the general mess and clutter. Such undisciplined children. Only his son was as tidy as a soldier should be. Pietro, foolish a disappointment as he was, still knew exactly what was expected of him. 

The master bedroom, where Raven had once slept, was the last to be examined. It rankled Erik's sensibilities. Such _cheek_ , inserting himself into the heart of this house! Charles was a regular, parasitic cuckoo bird, laying his egg in a hard-worked nest to destroy all progress. Who did he think he was?! 

The bedroom was fairly plain, save for an overflowing bookshelf on one wall- many of the titles, Erik had already read himself- a set of weights by the bathroom, and a cardboard box next to the bed overflowing with paperwork. When Erik crossed the creaky wood floors to examine it, something warm pressed to his shin. 

"Moo?" inquired a young gray cat, tail swishing uncertainly at this newcomer. The tags 'round its neck jingled metallically. 

"Moo, indeed." When he bent to look inside the box, he absently scratched the feline's ears, preventing it from hopping into the box as its kind were wont to do. "What have we here?" 

Financial records. School reports. A torn envelope, containing-- 

The cat took three hasty steps back when he recoiled from the ultrasound of his fetal daughter and son, entwined like tiny white ghosts inside his wife. The fact that this deeply personal image was _here,_ so casually tucked away with this strange man's belongings, felt sickening; invasive. Damn him- damn this _Logan._ Erik clenched his fists and let out a low growl through his teeth before forcing himself to calm. 

Howlett had called Pietro 'his'. Victor had reported this, an amused curl on his cat's lips. He'd known it would get under his boss's skin. What a direct challenge-- it was almost as though he _wanted_ to start a fight-- 

Oh. Was that it? Well. He didn't know this 'Logan Howlett' personally, but he was certain that he, Erik, would play the more skilled game of chess. 

Sliding free his cellular phone, he dialed a number by memory and held the device to his ear, hand only slightly shaken by tremors of anger. 

"Daisy," he said, the moment a familiar voice on the other line picked up. "I've made up my mind. The next time Mr. Howlett comes to visit my daughter, give him a little message from me..." 

_It's your move now, Wolverine. I'll be waiting._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Pebble and the Penguin bit was direct homage to whattheficery’s [[fic](http://whattheficery.tumblr.com/post/125227076639/fic-its-the-pebble-and-the-fucking-penguin-oh-my)] that y’all should read like, yesterday. It includes the line "Guys, I think I married Lance by accident." I don't know what you're waiting for.


	15. Blue Bishop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh for Puck's sake.

"Are you kidding me, Mr. McCoy? This is _hideous._ "

Hank spared a glance at the speedster holding his costume, pinched between two fingertips like a dead skin. His lip was curled in absolute disgust. 

Hank cocked his blue-furred head in puzzlement. 

"Really? I thought it was fine. It fits the measurements you gave me... I told Miranda to make it as similar to the costume Cardinale wore last Shakespeare Festival as she could." 

"Well, Miranda _sucks!_ " Pietro snapped irritably. "It's hot and itchy- what is it made out of, _felt_?! No fairy would wear this." 

Hank, overworked as ever, felt his patience beginning to fray, but Pietro and Lance were his best assets on this production. Without them, he doubted he could make it run so smoothly. Everything from lighting adjustments to props to quick changes to makeup were being overseen, without a complaint, by these boys... and he wasn't fool enough to pretend that he didn't know why. 

Bayville High's production of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ was quickly gaining notoriety as _The_ highly politicized, mutant-loving event of the year. There were outed mutants heavily involved in every aspect of the production and he, the director, was perhaps the most blatantly, outspokenly mutated of all. He'd had to recast more than one starring role because their parents had refused to allow their children to participate. 

Crunch time was upon them, and Hank's stress level was climbing rapidly. It may just be a silly school play, but it had grown to mean so much more to all involved. 

"We do have budget constraints, you know," he reminded Pietro acerbically. "This isn't Broadway." 

"Please." Pietro waved this concern off like it was a pesky fly. "I could make a better costume with an old towel and some dental floss." 

Hank closed his eyes, clutched his mile-long to-do list tight to his chest, and forced himself to count to ten until his blood pressure slid back to safer levels. "Okay," he said tersely, eyes still closed. "If it means so much to you, then be my guest; tailor your costume to your heart's content. Just make _sure_ you're still able to get all your other tasks done, and please, be _quick about it._ " 

Pietro flashed him a brilliant, million-dollar smile. "Who do you think you're talking to? I'll put a girdle round about the Earth in forty minutes." 

Despite his weariness, or maybe because of it, Hank felt a sleep-deprived smile cross his face. _Good luck, Logan,_ he thought, wondering for the thousandth time how his friend managed to maintain a full _house_ of these kids. 

"I know you will," he said with warm sincerity, and clapped a hand on Pietro's shoulder. "I couldn't be prouder of you boys, you know. You've worked so hard." For this, and in so many other ways, as well. 

Pietro's expression didn't change, but his blue eyes blinked rapidly as though, maybe, he were surprised. "Yeah, well," he said dismissively, after a heartbeat. "You've... worked pretty hard yourself." 

It was the nicest thing Hank had ever heard the boy say. Before he could even smile, Pietro was turning away, shouting to the other students backstage: "Alright, peasants! Quit screwing around. We're gonna get this dress rehearsal _right_ tonight before we can go home." 

'Lysander' flipped him off. 'Hermia' popped her bubblegum so loudly that it echoed through the heavily curtained backstage. Despite this, everyone still compliantly got into position. 

Pietro took 'Helena's' wrists, raising her arms for her as he frowned at the beading around her waist. 

"Your sequins keep falling off," he said sternly. "Give me the dress later; I'll fix it." 

Amazing. Just amazing. He really was remarkable; his initiative and drive and talent... he could grow up to do anything, _be_ anything, he wanted. 

In that moment, Hank wanted nothing more than for all the mutant children the world over to have that same opportunity. There were days when his activism felt useless, hopeless; a drop in the bucket. 

He had only to spend a few minutes with mutant children to remember why it was all, in the end, worth it. Why it would always be worth it, even if change didn't really begin in his lifetime. 

What an ever-evolving world to live in. What a time to be alive. 

"How's it going, Lance?" he called up to the booth where the Avalanche had moodily isolated himself for hours with cables and setup. 

A hand emerged from the window, giving him a thumbs-up, before retreating again. 

"Okay!" Hank, vigor renewed, clapped his hands together. Pietro, who did not have speaking lines until act two, crept backstage to wait for the young lovers, already prepared to help them through their first costume change. "Act one, scene one! Theseus, you're up!" 

* * *

"Do you really think Pietro's sister will come visit us someday?"

At least once a month, Logan attempted to spend some one-on-one time with the boys. It wasn't always easy; they were all busy with one thing or another. He was doing good this February, though; last weekend, he'd taken Todd out to see the new kung-fu movie he'd been raving about in theaters. This week, Fred had volunteered to run some errands with him before Logan needed to drop him off at work. 

"Yeah, bud; I do. I'm doin' my best to make sure it happens. Even if just for a few hours, even if her guards stick to her like glue the whole time... She wants to. I think that's a good thing." 

"Isn't she..." Fred bit his lip, watching Logan pace the grocery aisle of frozen vegetables until he found the variety mix he favored, then began tossing bags of it into their overflowing shopping cart. "Well. Pietro says she's real dangerous, and doesn't have much control." 

That was the problem in a nutshell, wasn't it? She'd hurt him several times over. Once, rather severely. It hadn't been intentional. He seen it in her panicked eyes when she'd knelt to the floor next to him, hands fluttering, eyes enormous. Blue sparks emanated from her distressed eyes, shaking hands, mouth, skin as she tried to manually piece his flesh back together. He'd stroked her hair, murmured, _"It's alright, it's alright,"_ until his heart was no longer exposed. 

If it were just him, she could hurt him all she liked until she got it all out of her system. Logan had always had distressingly low self-preservation instincts. There'd been that one time when Hank had yelled at him for casually pulling a pan from the oven, barehanded, because he couldn't be bothered to find any potholders... 

But it _wasn't_ just him. His boys just did not heal like he did. Oh, they healed faster than the average human; most homo-superior were made of sturdier stuff than that. But they... But _nobody_ was really like Logan. As Charles put it, he was quite unique. 

"We're workin' on that," he reassured Fred. "We're workin' on finding some other energy outlets an' some-" what had Hank called it? "some coping mechanisms. I'd never... You know I'd protect you boys from anythin'." 

Fred hummed noncommittally. Suddenly feeling the awkward silence, Logan searched for something more positive to say. 

"She told me the funniest thing when I visited her yesterday. I told them to stop bindin' her hands when she's around me- she can't really hurt me long-term, and it's just weird for both of us. So the first thing she does is- Freddie, bend down a little." 

When Fred complied, Logan reached up and gently brushed Fred's smooth face with his knuckles. "She goes and does _that_ to me and goes, 'why is your face so angry'?" 

Fred blinked, blue-grey eyes uncomprehending. "Angry?" 

"She meant my stubble, I guess. All her male nurses are clean-shaven. My face isn't soft like theirs." 

"Oh!" Fred laughed boisterously and straightened back to his usual seven-foot-three; exactly two feet taller than his guardian. "Oh, aw. That's sweet. Wait 'til she gets a load of _Lance!_ " 

"That's what I told her. She said, 'oh, is he angry, too?'." 

"Well," Fred bent to better examine the different cheeses on display in the coolers. He had a little, sly smile quirking up one corner of his mouth. "You two do look pretty cranky half the time." He selected a brick of cheddar, and another of parmesan. 

Logan playfully shoved him in the side as they resumed walking under the overbright grocery lights, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." 

"Can I get some Kool-aid, da- _Logan_?" Fred asked, when they passed a display stand of the drink-mix. Logan jerked his head in a 'go-right-ahead' gesture, so Fred began tossing packets of colorful powder into the cart, one of each flavor. 

They next passed a shelf of bottled protein drinks. Logan reached for the chocolate-flavored ones, but the sixteen-year-old shook his head no. 

"Pietro only likes vanilla or strawberry," he explained, and began loading bottles into the shelf underneath their basket. Logan filed that bit of information away for later. 

"You want to see a picture of her?" Logan asked, after he was finished. 

Fred tilted his head up, eyes bright, nodding. 

Logan pulled his wallet from his back pocket, unfolding the extra pocket of clear plastic sleeves where he had pictures of all 'his' kids that would fit. Lance's scowling school photo sat between Fred's bright smile and Scott's pained, cringing one. Wanda had wanted him to have a picture of her, to show to Pietro if he ever expressed interest. 

"So that he... so that he still knows me." Her voice had been very quiet on the request. It'd made Logan's heart hurt. 

He handed Fred the wallet, and the large boy brought it very close to his eyes, squinting at the little picture. 

Logan mentally added 'make an appointment at the eye-doctor for Fred' between 'make sure Lance actually has auto insurance' and 'pick up more bacteria at the exotic pet store for Todd's baths' on his to-do list. 

"Ohhh," Fred breathed, and there was real wonder in his voice when he did so. " _There_ she is!" 

He sounded softly, sweetly delighted, as though he'd been looking for her all his life and had finally, at last, found her. "She doesn't look like I thought she would," he mused, pausing in the aisle and waving at a family of four that stared at him curiously. "But that's her, alright." 

She'd brushed her hair for the photograph; long enough to hang in black waves down her back, and had pushed it behind her shoulders so that her face could be seen. She hadn't smiled, but there was... a pleasantness in her knife-sharp blue eyes. A lack of her usual severity. 

"She's a good kid," Logan agreed, when Fred handed the wallet back. "I want... I really, _really_ want to make this work out, Freddie. More 'n anythin'." 

Admitting just how much, out loud, felt a little dangerous. Like he might jinx himself by caring too much. But if any of the boys, aside from Pietro himself, would understand, it'd be Freddie. 

"Okay, Logan," Fred nodded seriously. "We'll do our best, okay?" 

He patted his guardian on the shoulder, as gently as he was able, but the strength still made Logan stumble and catch onto Fred's wrist for balance. Straightening, Logan smiled gratefully. 

"Alright!" he said. "Have we got everything?" 

From his own pocket, Fred withdrew the shopping list, walking a circle around their basket to make sure they'd gotten it all. "Yep, looks like it." 

They walked together to the long check-out line, where they examined the magazines on display by the candy-stand. 

"Look, it's you," Logan pointed to a magazine that boldly questioned, **How to Tell if You Are Becoming a Crazy Cat Lady**. The expensive, high-end cat food they'd just purchased stood as testament to that. 

Fred grinned. "Oh yeah? Well... _that's_ you." He pulled a magazine from the rack, bopping Logan on the head with it. _It_ was titled **Good Housewives United: Fighting Body Hair.**

Logan couldn't help it; he broke down in snickers trying to catch the magazine before Fred damaged it too much and they had to _buy_ the damn thing. 

"I hope when _you_ grow up, you still like me as much as this boy likes his father," a mother in the line ahead of them told her toddler, seated in the basket of her shopping cart. Logan felt a grin crack his rough face as the boy peeped shyly around at them. To Freddie she said, "You're awfully sweet for a teenager!"

Logan turned his grin onto Fred, pleased that someone, for once, appreciated Fred for the squishy sweetheart he was, but paused when he saw the boy wasn't smiling, not at all. He actually ducked his head and mumbled, "Thank you, ma'am, but Logan ain't my daddy." 

... Oh. 

The words fell like a kick to Logan's chest. His smile melted off his face, and his shoulders sagged. 

Of course. Of _course_ , of course. How could he be so presumptuous? He'd gone and assumed how his charges felt, yet again, and had nobody to blame but himself to find they didn't feel the same way. God, but he felt it like a bruise. 

He forced his smile back into place, reaching as high as he was able to pat Freddie's arm. "I ain't that lucky," he told the now confused-looking woman. "Freddie's a good boy, though; awfully proud of him." 

She smiled politely and nodded, then turned back to the cashier, clearly uncomfortable at the ambiguity. Fred must have been feeling the same way, because he muttered something about needing the bathroom before shuffling out of the line, leaving Logan alone with their purchases. 

_Fuck._

He'd only been with the boys a hair over four months, after all. He shouldn't be expecting any miracles. Heck; he'd seen where Fred came from-- Logan and Jean had sat in the stands and watched his mutation being exploited for profit. Watched the humiliation, the mocking; watched what happened to a mutant teen on his own.

Fred was waiting for him at the door when he'd finished checking out, and he silently took all the heavy cloth bags from their cart, carrying them to the truck and carefully arranging them in the back as Logan put the cart away. 

Logan sidled into the drivers' seat next to Fred and headed back onto the road, driving carefully so the groceries in the back wouldn't topple. 

"Hey," he said, after a few minutes of awkward silence. "How 'bout I teach you to drive sometime?" He was already dreading the day Todd asked him for driving lessons, but Fred wouldn't be too bad. Maybe he could pawn that particular heart-attack off onto Lance after the kid turned eighteen in the fall... 

"That'd be nice," Fred agreed quietly, then lapsed back into silence. 

Logan sighed and pressed the play button on the truck's cassette player, hoping some rock would clear the mood. He remembered only last-minute that this tape was a 'sounds of nature' audio that Hank had given him, and the truck filled with owl hoots, cricket chirps, and the rustling of leaves until they reached the library and Logan pulled into a parking spot by the doors. 

After a moment, Fred unbuckled his seat-belt and made to climb out of the truck. "Thank you fer drivin' me, Logan." 

"Freddie," Logan reached to stop him. "Wait just a second. I wanted to tell you somethin'." 

"It's not you." The words burst out of Fred's mouth, as though he'd been storing them there since they'd begun driving. The top of his mohawk made a soft shushing sound as it brushed the roof of the truck. "It's just... Y'know. I _have_ parents. Is all." 

Parents who'd sent him packing when, at age thirteen (and a half!), he'd caught a speeding truck trying to run him off the road and lifted the front bumper off the dirt. The bullies inside had been unhurt; the Chevy, salvageable. The worst damage had been Fred's palms blistering and burning on the overheated engine. Still- 

"I know, buddy. I'm not tryin' to take that away from you. I promise. And I'm not mad at you at all. I'm actually _proud_ of you." 

Fred's gray-blue eyes were downturned, plush face creased and stormy. He didn't believe his guardian. 

"I gotta go to work now," he said, but didn't climb from the truck. "Marianne wants me to hose off the book-carts in the basement..." 

If he'd really wanted to go, there'd have been no way for Logan to stop him. Logan took that as encouragement, squeezing Fred's shoulder with conviction. "Really. You're doin' the best in school you've ever done. You've got a good job. An' you're the heart of our house." 

Fred looked at him, startled by this last declaration. 

"You think I could manage without you? No way. You're the best helper I could ask for. You're the peacekeeper. You keep us all going." 

It was true. In a house of big and loud personalities, the biggest and loudest boy was, oddly, the neutralizer. He'd watched him time and again calm Lance's earth-shaking; steady Pietro's racing mind, and he did it so naturally Logan was inclined to believe that that was just who Freddie was inside. 

"We need you. We love you. And I don't care if you never wanna call me 'dad'- you don't have to. If y'ever wanna test it out and see if it fits, that's fine too. But I hope we can still be friends even when you're too old to need me around, cuz anyone with you as a friend is a lucky guy." 

Fred met his gaze, steady-on. He wasn't a man, not yet, but there was something a little grown-up in his eyes just then. Then his face flushed pink, and he gave Logan the gentlest of affectionate pushes, eyes sparkling humorously. 

"Aww, jeez," he grinned. "Jeez, jeez. Soon you're gonna be callin' me _Freddie-bear_ , too." 

"You want me to?" Logan raised an eyebrow, and Fred's pink flush seared to red. 

He squawked, shaking his head. "No, no! _Jeez!_ " 

It was good to see him smile.

Logan waved as Fred gathered his bookbag and climbed from the truck, waiting until he'd reached the library doors before rolling his window down and calling, sweetly, "Have a good day at work, Freddie-bear." 

Fred nearly ripped the door off the building. Logan howled with laughter, pounding his steering wheel, as Fred shot a red-faced glare his way. His crossly muttered, " _Jeez, jeez!"s_ followed him all the way into the building. 

Pulling from the parking lot, Logan tapped the horn twice and chuckled all the way back to the highway. A little property damage was worth it in the long run if he got to mess with his charges from time to time.


	16. Scarlet Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love a nice family reunion?!

The difference in flickering lights filtered through Logan's eyelids was what roused him awake. The scene on the television had changed, again, from an old black-and-white movie to a brightly colored infomercial.

He was also near-immobilized by the dead weight of a slightly sweaty avalanche.

"Hey- bub-" Logan freed an arm to shake the sleeping teen slumped over his chest. Lance didn't respond. Poor kid must be exhausted. He hadn't been sleeping well, not since New Years.

Tonight wasn't the first time he'd stayed up late to watch movies with Logan, creeping closer and closer across the sofa before finally giving in and leaning on his guardian for comfort.

Logan could relate. When one got used to sharing a sleeping space with another, having a whole bed to yourself felt a little like drowning in fabric and silence.

With great care, Logan extracted himself from underneath Lance's bulk, standing and stretching. His metallic bones popped as he twisted and yawned.

Then he reached for Lance, grunting as he scooped him from the sofa and made for the stairs.

Life had been... _Weird_ since Lance and Pietro's holiday breakup. Logan didn't know the whole story, but he knew enough. Lance cared too much; Pietro supposedly didn't care at all. Logan had his doubts. Pietro, too, had been acting strangely.

He passed Fred's room, calmed by the large boy's snores, and then Todd's, where he could hear the small, restless mutant roll over in bed.

Pietro's room remained cold and silent. Out all night, _again._

Logan stumbled a little trying to open Lance's bedroom door without dropping him, but the young man was well and truly out. He gave a suspicious sniff to his face as he set him on the bed, but detected no alcohol- or anything else- on his breath. His eyes were puffy, though. Logan's heart squeezed with a dull bruise-like pang of understanding, and of love, and he sighed sorrowfully.

Lance grumbled in his sleep as he pulled the oversized blanket Fred had gifted him to his chin, and Logan impulsively brushed a kiss to his forehead, sweeping long hair from his face before turning to leave the room.

In the open doorway, with pale hair and eyes gleaming just slightly in the dark, stood Pietro. Logan startled. How could he have missed his approach? The boy smelled, quite strongly, of a lot of things, and none of them good.

He took a few steps back as Logan approached, but did not fly off to his bedroom. He instead waited until Logan stepped out of Lance's room, shut the door, and retreated to the stairwell before speaking.

"Is he sick?"

 _Maybe a little heart-sick._ "No. Just tired. It's almost four. I don't have to tell you that you were out past curfew."

Pietro, predictably, didn't look much bothered by this, but neither did he offer a flippant retort like he once might have. He smelled of alcohol, but it was only on his clothes, not his breath. He stank a _lot_ of girls' perfume, and the rising bruises mottling his throat told the full tale. Dancing, then; some club in NYC or anywhere else. With speed like his, distance wasn't exactly a problem.

Logan folded his arms, sharp animal eyes just as keen in the dark. "I need you to stop going out without telling me. Running away from your feelings won't solve anything. And it's not safe. You could get hurt."

Pietro's chin raised in defiance. He had on some makeup; liner round his eyes, gloss on his lips. Kid was talented at stuff like that, Logan supposed. The skimpy outfit bothered him more. _Not safe. He's not being safe._ How old had those girls been, the ones he now smelled of? They had to be at _least_ twenty-one to be in a club...

The protective animal inside him wanted to _snarl_. He was trying _so hard_ to be understanding, but...

"Who says I have feelings?" Pietro asked coolly, and Logan resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead looking pointedly at the necklace he wore: a distinctive, handmade silver keychain shaped like a lightning bolt he'd affixed to a chain. Pietro scowled, raising a hand to cover it.

"I'm not tellin' you how to live your life," Logan sighed. "But again- you _are_ going to tell me before you go out, and you're going to tell me when you're coming back, and you're going to be back earlier than this on school nights. That's just courtesy, bub; I'm losing all kinds of sleep waiting up for you."

He waited for Pietro to ask him what he planned on doing about it; how he proposed to punish him. In truth, he didn't know himself. Pietro had never listened to him. Yelling at him would just make him more stubborn. It wasn't as though he could threaten to send him away. Aside from the fact that they'd both know it to be a lie, where could he go? He had no place in the X-mansion, and there were no other homes he trusted to take care of a mutant teen. He really had no leverage here.

Instead of questioning his authority, Pietro said only, "You don't need to wait up for me, you know. I'm fine." Was that a touch of guilt in his voice?

Logan snorted, shifting his weight on the wood floors. His feet were getting cold. "Don't be stupid, Sonic. S'my job. I'm always going to wait for you." He'd just catch a nap when the kids were at school.

Pietro took a step back on the stairs until he stood a shorter height than Logan. Was he ceding ground? There was something a little wild in his eyes tonight. Young. Breaking. How long had he been fracturing? All night? Two months? _Sixteen years?_

"You really mean that, don't you?" Pietro asked, voice a defeated ghost in the dark. "You were the real thing all along."

"Pietro, are you okay?" Logan took a step closer, to see the source of the problem. Had those girls hurt him? Was he--

Pietro leaned forward, touching his forehead to Logan's sternum. His shaking hands clutched Logan's sleeves as though he were a lifeline.

It was awkward, hugging him with stairs between them, but Logan did his best, wrapping his arms around those pointy shoulders. He didn't understand, not really. Even after all his years of life, he understood so _little._ But if he could physically attempt to hold this desperate bird of a child together with his strong hands, he'd do so as long as he was permitted.

"Okay," Pietro said quietly, loosening his death-grip after a minute or so of fraught silence. "I'll... do that stuff. I'll tell you. Just get some sleep, old man; you look like death."

"That's my line." It wasn't true, though. Pietro didn't need as much sleep as most did. He'd no doubt be up fresh and sassy for school in a few hours. Physically, he looked fine. Mentally... "You should sleep too. Tomorrow's the big night."

"Yeah. Yes." Pietro nodded firmly, stepping back, reestablishing himself. He wouldn't meet Logan's eyes. "I'm just going to-- Yes. Goodnight." He took another step down, then briskly turned and descended the stairs, shutting himself in the bathroom. A moment later, the patter of shower water could be heard.

Logan, pleased that Pietro was home- was _safe_ \- was otherwise unsettled. Instead of going to bed, he returned to his post on the couch, a sentry guarding his charges from all the monsters of the outside world. He half expected Lance or Pietro- or heck; _both_ \- to return to him in the hours between now and the ringing of alarm clocks, the rising of the sun. Instead, he was left to fall into a doze, then a proper sleep.

* * *

Pietro woke a good five minutes before his alarm and stared dully at the ceiling. He felt tired; punchy, but knew he wouldn't be able to sleep a second longer, not until he'd worn his body down to exhaustion yet again. There was nothing else for it; he slipped from bed and dressed.

He left his bedroom immaculate and crept past the rooms of his housemates, lingering just a moment outside Lance's door. His fist raised, wanting to knock. Lance wasn't much good in the mornings; muzzy-headed and cotton-mouthed and bumble-limbed. He might not even register Pietro's presence as significant; might just haul him into bed under one muscled arm and fall right back to sleep...

 _Aching and wanting,_ when did it ever _stop_?!

Pietro dropped his fist and turned away, forcing his body into the kitchen where he briskly set to the process of putting calories into his stomach. Nothing had any taste. After trying and failing to choke down a banana, he instead turned to the refrigerator, pulling out a six-pack of strawberry-flavored protein shakes. At least they didn't require chewing. 

He drank three of them, one right after the other, until he stopped feeling so lightheaded. Then, as an afterthought, he started up the coffeemaker. Lance and Logan would assume Fred had done it, so that was alright.

Logan was sleeping on the sofa when Pietro grabbed his backpack and made for the door, curled onto his side with his head pillowed on one arm. A spike of embarrassment pierced through the numb haze of his mind as he recalled their compromised, _weak_ encounter just hours before. Logan looked cold, all folded over on himself, hairy calves goosebumped. It _was_ cold out, despite the snow piles outside beginning to melt to gray slush. Stupid old man, passing out without a blanket.

Retreating to the closet where their bulky coats hung, Pietro snatched a thick flannel quilt and stomped to the sofa, flicking his wrists aggressively so that it settled over Logan on the first try. He was gone before anyone in the house was any the wiser.

He tried not to think about the night before as he crossed the school's near-empty campus, using the key Hank had given him to access the theater. He knew it was a bad idea to start adjusting the props- knew, out-of-it as he was, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself once he'd begun, but the temptation to just _go blank_ and improve, _control_ this tiny corner of his world was too much to resist.

He didn't fight himself very hard.

When he came to, Lance was squeezing both of his wrists tight, speaking calmly into his face. He struggled, but Lance was iron-strong.

"You need to _stop_ ," Lance repeated, interjecting a firmness into his voice, but that confidence wavered when he saw Pietro's eyes re-focusing on his. "You can, uh. Stop now. Or whatever."

"It's not right," Pietro mumbled, but his heart wasn't in it. The theater had never been more pristine; even the ceiling gleamed with cleaning products.

"It's as 'right' as it's gonna get," Lance said. "I'm gonna let go now. You need to go to class."

Pietro didn't _want_ Lance to let him go, and he certainly didn't like the way he was looking at him: distant, like he might regard a stranger. His mouth formed a moue of protest when those warm hands slipped from his and Lance turned his back, retreating to his booth. It was the most Lance had touched him in weeks.

Then Pietro remembered exactly _why_ that was, and shut his mouth with a click. Without another word, he picked up his backpack and left for first period classes.

He sleep-walked through his day, Upholding the Maximoff name with Excellence. It didn't _feel_ like excellence when it was so effortless, but he didn't like things he had to try at, either. Things that required _trying_ risked failure.

He didn't much like anything right now. 

Returning to the theater after classes had ended, working quietly with Hank to perfect the last details, helped his mood some. They were so shorthanded that they needed all the extra time they could get.

"What are you doing?" Pietro asked 'Hermia', who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing the slip for her costume and not much else while scowling into a mirror.

"I'm coming down with a cold," she said, her voice thick with mucus. "I look like hell."

Pietro sat across from her. "You're just a little pale and chalky. You'll be fine. Here." He reached into the makeup bag by her knee, shuffling through bottles and creams and powders, and set to livening up her complexion.

She closed her eyes and pressed her face- which was fever-warm- into his palm, looking half asleep as he painted her eyelids a warm gold-brown and blended color onto her cheeks and lips.

When Pietro looked up, Lance was watching him, expression blank. Pietro contrarily took a large brush and dusted 'Hermia's'- he should probably have learned her real name over the months they'd worked together, but why would it matter to _him?_ \- shoulders and collarbones with shimmery powder, trailing it deliberately into her ample cleavage. She opened her eyes to glare at him, so he gave her a flirty grin. Lance did not blink.

"There. Now you're almost as pretty as me. Go drink some tea."

There was so much busywork that it was a blessed relief. _Don't think; only do._ He'd quite lost track of time, but Hank had ordered them dinner before the performance, and the cast and crew ate hungrily. Pietro rolled his eyes when Queen Titania's actor turned down the meal with her usual air of superiority.

"I've been skipping meals for _days_ to fit into my gown," she sighed primly, emphasizing her wasp's waist.

"Skipping meals just makes you fatter in the long run," Pietro pointed out in a sugary-sweet voice, bearing his teeth in a vicious smile before pointedly taking an enormous bite of his pizza slice. "Unless you _keep_ skipping them, of course. _You_ couldn't afford to forget."

"Tro!" Lance barked, shoving him so hard that his hip knocked cans of soda from the table. "Quit being such a douchebag for once in your _fucking_ life. That's so not cool."

He spoke with such vitriol; with anger that had clearly been accumulating for weeks. The moment Pietro recovered from his surprise, a savage sort of glee took its place. There was no love in Lance's eyes now; only naked disgust. _Oh,_ now _you're getting it, Lancelot. Now you see what I really am._

He set his plate down and offered Lance his best and brightest smile. Lance wanted to fight? He'd take a fight with Lance any day over this silence. "Oh? You don't agree with me, baby?"

"That's enough," Hank said, looking both tired and disappointed. "Stop it, everyone. I know we're all stressed, but we're running out of time. Halie, please eat."

"But-"

"I am legally required to report kids endangering themselves to a guidance counselor. Eat. Please. Pietro, that comment was beyond inappropriate and you need to apologize. Now. And Lance, cool it with the language."

The day just kept on getting better and better.

* * *

The hour had come at last.

Lance, above the crowd in his booth, oversaw the entire theater like an invisible god. Despite all the people filing in, it was (almost) soundproof in his box, so it was a bit surreal seeing people move, mouths flapping, without the noise to accompany it. He had more access to the sounds on the stage than he did the crowd.

When his attention was drawn by a familiar mohawk (Fred had dyed it purple with grape Kool-Aid, and at seven feet, three inches tall, he stood out in any crowd), Lance watched as he, Todd, Kurt, Jean, Scott, and Logan found decent seats. He frowned and pressed his forehead against the glass of his booth, trying to see better. Was that a smudge on the glass, or was Todd's face looking bruised?

As though reading his mind, Todd turned to face Lance's booth, waving energetically. Lance raised a hand to wave back before remembering Todd couldn't see him through the tinted glass and lowered his hand, feeling foolish.

 _"I! Got! In! A! Fight!"_ Todd mouthed, grinning maniacally. His left eye _was_ bruised, as though someone had up and socked him. 

Logan gripped Todd's shoulder and hauled him to his seat, looking upset.

_What in the fuck..._

His radio crackled a moment later, and he fumbled a few buttons before chancing upon the correct one to hear Hank's voice properly. "I'm here," he said. "Uh. Over. Roger. Whatever." _God_ he sounded stupid. He was in so far over his head with all this stuff that it wasn't even funny. 

"Lance, it looks like there's some anti-mutant protesting going on just off-campus. Police have been notified. Please don't go outside."

"Oh, uh. Wow." That was fucked up. He hadn't had any intention of going outside anyway- too much to do- but. Jesus. The idea that he _couldn't_ made him feel a little claustrophobic. Was that who had hit Todd? "Okay. Is everyone okay?"

"So far. There might be news coverage, so just keep your head up."

"Roger."

"You don't have to say 'Roger' for everything, dear. You watch too many old movies."

Lance glared at the radio until it went silent, then began pacing around his little booth. This hadn't been what he'd originally signed up to do, and it had been a last-minute crash course in learning all the dials and knobs and buttons and blinky lights. Honestly, this was more Todd or Kitty's area of expertise; Lance worked with his hands, not with digital things. But so many people had dropped the ball on them that he'd somehow ended up with what felt like _all of the jobs._

It was a long wait as the theater filled to capacity. It seemed despite all those opposed to the play, people were still willing to pay the two-dollar admission fee to gawk at the mutant event. It felt a little less friendly than it had when he'd arrived, though. Was Pietro safe out there? 

Lance wasn't stubborn enough to pretend he didn't care, no matter the turmoil inside him regarding the other mutant. Much as Pietro acted above everything, it would hurt him a lot if he got booed off the stage- or worse- for what he so openly, proudly was. Lance didn't want to see Pietro hurt in that way... Or _any_ way.

He wished he could open the tinted window and blow spitballs at the back of Scott's head to distract himself.

The relief when he noticed Charles in a wheelchair-accessible space with Ororo and a handful of the younger X-brats right beside him was immense. He didn't have to _like_ them to know they'd be useful if things really did get bad.

When the clock read 6:59, Lance pressed a button on the radio- the correct one, this time. "You're on," he informed Hank, and then dimmed the outer lights, preparing the spotlight.

Hank, looking very dapper in a navy three-piece suit, stepped center-stage in all his furred glory. A few adults in the crowd reeled back, eyes wide in shock. They'd clearly never seen anything like Hank before. Lance was relieved when the mic clipped to his tie amplified his deep, pleasant voice without a hitch.

"Good evening, families and friends of Bayville high school!"

Hank launched into a practiced speech praising the talent and excellence of his students, giving the audience a brief background of the program. He then surprised Lance by going a touch off-script.

"We at Bayville's theater club wish to promote a celebration of all races, nationalities, genders, sexualities, religions, and abilities. We also want to begin the long process of recognizing individuals born with the X-gene as valued and equal members of society. Progress in diversity acceptance is and has always been an uphill struggle, and I am fantastically, overwhelmingly proud of the work put in today by my 'mutant' and mutant-supporting cast and crew."

There was some distinctively uneasy shifting in the audience. Charles touched two fingers to his temple, closing his eyes in concentration; a moment later, Hank's smile turned a little wry.

"You didn't come here tonight to listen to me ramble, so we'll wrap things up. But let it be said: I adore my students, and I will do anything in my power to protect, uphold, and support their well-being and continued growth... And to prevent, by any means necessary, _anything_ that would deter them from their rightful place as students, dreamers, and performers. Tonight, we give you William Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream!"_

The applause that followed was patchy, scattered as he bowed and left the stage. Had Hank just _threatened_ the audience? 

Todd more than made up for it by standing on Fred's shoulders, whooping until Jean dragged him back into his seat.

"The hell was _that_?" Lance muttered into the radio.

"Language."

Act one, scene one was officially a go. Lance faded in the forest sound effects, prepared for the long haul with his thermos of coffee. He was filled with an unfamiliar pride at the sight of all the sets he'd helped build and painted officially on display. This entire play had his fingerprints all over it, literally and figuratively. It hadn't hit him until just now how much it meant to _him,_ too. He _wanted_ tonight to be good.

Act one commenced smoothly. The audience's applause as the lights faded was more confident this time, and Lance steeled himself to watch Pietro's first scene in act two...

But _nothing_ could have prepared him for what happened next.

"Oh," he whispered, leaning forward in his box to _stare_ at the stage. "My. God."

His radio crackled a moment later.

"Lance?" Hank said, voice rather high. "Ah. Is. Is Mr. Maximoff wearing what I think he's wearing, or am I having an odd sort of stroke?"

"Let's see. Do you see furry short-shorts and a leaf necklace?"

"I do."

"And absolutely nothing else?"

"That does appear to be the case, yes."

"Then either we're both having the same stroke or yes, Mr. McCoy; he's really wearing that."

"God help us all."

Pietro appeared to be enormously pleased with himself. His bare chest, legs, and everything else glimmered with silvery dusting powder. It was much to Halie's credit that she wasn't staring at him with her jaw dropped for appearing near-naked onstage in front of hundreds. Oberon's actor, Trevor, was having less success in that field. The audience, too, was staring.

Lance watched Charles bury his face in his hands. A few rows ahead of him, Logan was doing much the same thing.

"Holy _shit,_ Tro," Lance mumbled under his breath, realizing as the trio exited the stage that he was grinning like a madman. "Holy. Shit."

Pietro being half a step above public indecency aside, the play was going remarkably well. Lance was so occupied that he couldn't do much more than snicker every time he got a glimpse of his ex... his former... _Whatever_ he and Pietro now were. 

He even managed to execute the smooth _stage-lights-out, audience-lights-on, turn-on-his-audio, speak-into-mic,_ "We will now be having a ten minute intermission," after Queen Titiana lead Bottom off to her bedchambers, then quickly ran from his booth and out to his hallway for the crew-only, second-floor bathroom. All the coffee he'd been drinking filled him with a desperate need to pee.

Hank's voice echoed on the walls of the tiny backstage bathroom when Lance washed his hands and stepped out. Lance followed the sound to see the blue-furred teacher surrounded by a noisy, clamoring group of strangers, one of whom held a video camera.

"-- an interview, Mr. McCoy?" one was asking, flashing his press card.

"I'd be glad to." Hank sounded crisply annoyed. "If you'd schedule an appointment on _my_ time. Please; you aren't meant to be back here and now is not conveni-"

"Is that one 'a your muties?" Interjected the large cameraman, swiveling his focus onto Lance. Lance felt frozen to the spot as he blinked into the flashing red light. 

"Hey kid, what can you tell us about the fights going on outside?"

_Fights?_

Hank stepped swiftly in front of Lance, staring the cameraman down. "You'll stop recording now," he ordered. He had yet to bare his fangs, but Lance suspected he wasn't far from doing so by the way his fur bristled. "My student is a minor and has not consented to be in any footage. I could have you prosecuted for trespassing on private property. I strongly suggest you _leave now._ "

There was no arguing with Hank when he was like this, and Lance was relieved. He'd been on the news before, but this had caught him completely off guard.

Hank threw a fiercely protective arm around Lance's shoulders as they stalked past the crew, keeping him close. 

"Hank," Lance said quietly. "What fights?"

"Protestors," Hank muttered. "Making things ugly. There've been several arrests; try not to worry too much." 

After he was dropped back into his booth without further incident, Lance was simply too bombarded with the enormity of his present tasks in the resuming play to put more thought into it. 

Gail, who had a cold, was losing her voice. Lance couldn't turn her mic up any louder without blowing the speakers, and they didn't have a big enough cast to have a Hermia understudy. _What to do..._ He hoped she wouldn't pass her sickness onto 'Lysander' while kissing him at the end, or they really were sunk. 

This, and other play-related concerns, occupied him fully for the remainder of the hour, though he couldn't help but smirk every time Pietro, in his borderline-obscene costume, returned to stage. Regardless of the other character's actions, he stole every eye in the room. _Attention hog._

Before Lance knew it, they'd reached the end. He blared the wedding march before fading back into the forest sound effects, and Pietro took center stage for his final monologue. 

He twinkled charmingly out at them all, and Todd attempted to stand and cheer once more. Jean was prepared this time, her hand clamped tight to the collar of his coat. 

"If we shadows have offended, think but this, and all is mended." Pietro sounded sly, smarmy, as though not truly at all concerned whether or not the fairies _had_ been offensive. _It figures._

Lance rolled his eyes and shook his head, focusing the spotlight on Pietro and softening it to give him that perfect, ethereal, forest-green glow. 

"That you have but _slumber'd_ here--" 

Pietro abruptly fell silent, his body language stiffening as his attention was caught by something in the back of the theater. 

_Weird,_ Lance frowned. He hadn't done _that_ in rehearsal... 

When the seconds ticked by and Pietro continued to hold his pose in silence, something akin to worry took place in Lance's gut. _Something's up._

Charles, too, was frowning, twisted in his wheelchair to gawk over his shoulder, though nobody else in the theater had yet done so. 

Lance strained his neck to see what had caught their attention. There was an old man by the double doors, standing when the audience was meant to be seated. It was strange, but not _that_ strange... 

That was, until he shifted his stance and Lance got a better look at his emotionless face. Then he felt his stomach sink in pure dread. 

Oh. 

Not _an_ old man, after all. 

Erik Lehnsherr, near unrecognizable without his helmet, dressed in an expensive-looking suit and tie, stood with impeccable posture, eyes fixed upon his son. 

"What's happening?" Hank asked. "Lance, is Pietro stuck?" 

In a low voice, as though afraid of being overheard, Lance explained the situation. 

Hank McCoy _swore._

"Language," Lance quipped, without meaning to. The situation was just too bizarre, too surreal. Hank cursing was the cherry on top. Maybe Lance was dreaming. Maybe he'd given himself a caffeine-induced heart attack and was currently dreaming at Bayville Hospital. 

Onstage, Pietro recovered his composure. Forcing his dazzling smile back into place- the one that made his dimples pop- he spread his arms wide and beseeched the audience, "So, good night unto you all! Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends." 

He bowed, mischief and amusement twinkling in every movement, and the audience burst into raucous applause as the final curtain fell. Lance was forced to return his attention to his dashboard as the full cast emerged a moment later to bow and recieve standing ovation. 

**Mr. Alvers, are you there?**

"Fuck!" Lance yelped, jerking in his seat as Charles' voice invaded his head. That would never not be creepy. 

_Yes. Stop doing that, please._

**Believe me when I say I take no joy in connecting our minds. Stay where you are. I'll send Scott and Jean to collect you and see you safely home. It's bedlam outside.**

Fat chance of _that_ happening. _Dude, Magneto's here. I need to go get to Tro before he goes and does something stupid._

**They are both already gone. I can't reach either of them. Stay. Where. You. Are.**

Lance felt as though his insides had been flooded with ice. Sure enough, there was no Puck bowing onstage, but a gap where he'd been meant to stand. 

_Shit, shit, shit..._

Charles barked a sharp protest in his mind, but Lance ignored it, scrambling instead for the door. There was no way he could catch a speeding Pietro, but he could certainly catch Magneto... 

... _And then do what?_ It wasn't as though he were a match against the man in any kind of conflict. Magneto could wipe the pavement with him without any effort at all. _But..._

But he just couldn't let Pietro face him alone. He _wouldn't._

Lance raced down the stairs and out the double doors Erik had been standing by not minutes before, then into the sharp cold just outside. He realized too late that he'd forgotten his coat. It didn't matter. His boots thudded the pavement as he raced for the parking lot, then hesitated. It would be crowded as hell trying to drive off campus as people left the theater. He'd be faster on foot. 

_Where would they go?_

Lance tried to think like Pietro, since he couldn't begin to think like Erik. He'd want the man away from the others, would use himself as a distraction, trying to lure Magneto elsewhere before finding out what he'd come for. Of that, Lance was almost certain. _But where..._

It was too cold to stand still. Lance resumed a light jog as people began to pour in masses from the theater, heading for the main path leading away from campus. It was there he saw what 'bedlam' Charles had been referring to. 

Protesters had stamped the remaining snow to gray slush on the sides of the road, brandishing signs. There were only about thirty people now, but the trampled bushes and footprints in the grass suggested there had been many more. Police officers stood in groups of two at the fringes, keeping them from setting foot on actual school property. 

_Our children aren't safe,_ read one sign, and another: _Keep mutants out of schools._

Lance felt sick. He was human-passing, but he felt as though his mutation was, just then, shining like a beacon on his skin, marking him as Other for anyone who might look his way. _Someone hit Todd._ Of course they went for Todd; he was tiny, harmless-looking, and visibly mutated. Fred, too, was visibly mutated, but Lance doubted these cowards had the balls to try anything with _him._

Eyes pierced him as he casually jogged past; eerie and predatorily silent. A hand reached out and caught his arm before he could get too far. It was the cameraman who had tried to talk to him earlier. "Hey, it's the mutie kid!" he called to his companions. "How about that interview?" 

The camera was again in his face. His heart was in his throat. His stomach had sunk somewhere through the icy sidewalk. He tried to pull his wrist back, but it was held tight. 

"I- I didn't-" he stuttered, trying to remember what Hank had said. "I didn't consent to-" 

Protestors shuffled around him, circling him, _caging_ him. The panic inside him grew to intolerable levels, drowning him. He didn't have _time_ for this... 

_I'm sorry, Logan,_ Lance thought, screwing his eyes up and stomping a foot, hard, on the frozen ground. Seismic waves radiating from his core caused the ground to rumble threateningly. He heard screams. He knew that what he did was being filmed. He knew he was letting _everyone_ down. This had been what Charles was trying to prevent, wasn't it? Not Lance being harmed, but Lance _doing_ the harming. 

He stomped his foot again. The sidewalk cracked. People were flinging themselves to the sides, attempting to escape him. He wanted to rip the ground open. He wanted to bury them all. 

One of the police officers met Lance's eye. From his holster, he withdrew and aimed a Glock at Lance's chest. Whatever he shouted was drowned out by the chaos. 

Acting on pure instinct, Lance thrust both hands out before himself, concentrating his powers in one violent burst. The world rumbled, tore, broke; large chunks of earth bursting forth and sending people, hunks of road, shaken crumbs of sidewalk into a surging wave. A streetlight collapsed into a telephone wire in a burst of sparks; a winter-dead tree blazed. 

Then Lance _ran_ like the devil was on his heels, sprinting, slipping and scrabbling over the icy ground until he was nothing but motion in the darkness. It felt as though his heart had grown too big, suffocating his lungs as they choked for air. He was nothing but an animal of panic and rage, and he could no more stop the ongoing quakes than he could his own racing pulse. They'd been right all along: he _was_ a monster. But they were the ones who had made him so. 

Going home was the stupidest choice he could think of, but it was the only place his feet wanted to lead him. He wanted to be home. He wanted his family. He wanted someone to hold his face and tell him to calm down, that this could be fixed, that he hadn't just fucked all their lives beyond saving. It was a near eight-mile sprint, but he made it in record time that Pietro might have been impressed by. 

_Pietro..._ Fuck! He'd left Pietro behind with the one he feared the most. He'd failed on every conceivable level. He'd never hated himself any more than he did in that moment. 

"I'm sorry," he heaved breathlessly, bending double and struggling to remain standing as he choked in breath after breath, wondering if his heart was going to break through his ribs. The pizza he'd eaten before the play threatened to make a messy reappearance. 

He stumbled for the dark and empty house, grateful his keys were still in his pocket. There was nothing for it; the cops would come for him, and then... 

There was someone in his doorway already; a slim, feminine figure hunched on the porch, shivering in a thin trench-coat. 

"Tabby?" Lance asked, voice a tiny hoarse rasp as he climbed the steps on trembling, unsteady legs. Gods, but it was hard to even _move._ He slipped and barked his shin on one of the steps, and it seemed to take an eternity before he could stand again. The beginnings of a migraine were settling in. "Tabs, it's not safe here. I just fucked up _really_ bad, and I-" 

Then he was close enough to see that it wasn't Tabby after all, but a strange new girl. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he noticed the very air around her humming with tectonic energy. 

Lance's first impression, when she opened her blue eyes was, _oh!_ He'd seen those eyes, sharp as knives, on only two other people. His second observation was just how dilated her pupils were. Despite the snow, a cold sweat glittered her pale skin. 

"I am afraid that I am not feeling so--" Wanda Maximoff slurred, struggling to focus fever-bright eyes on Lance's face before falling bonelessly from the doorway and into the snow. 

* * *

[[X](http://mugsandpugs1.tumblr.com/post/171495945262/koriandr-art-lance-alvers-and-pietro)] 

* * *


	17. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes things just _suck._

**[BippityBlobbityBoo] is online**

**[Frogger] has started a chat**

**From [Frogger]:** D U D E. 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** what 

**From [Frogger]:** DUDE!!!!!! 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** i dont know what 2 say 2 that. what do u mean. use moar words pleese 

**From [Frogger]:** how bout these words, Freddie-bear?! GIRL LIVING IN OUR HOUSE. /HOT CHICK IN OUR HOUSE./ 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** u have a boyfriend.. and I'm saposed 2 be working. 

**From [Frogger]:** I KNOW THAT. I can still, like. Appreciate the aesthetic. COME ONNNNNN don't you think she's HOT, man?! 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** im busy. marianne asked me 2 reshelve books 

**From [BippityBlobbityBoo]:** im worried about lance. i want pietro to come home 

**From [Frogger]:** Well ofc I do too but... 

**[BippityBlobbityBoo] has left the chat**

**From [Frogger]:** [expletive redacted] 

**[Rockstarr] has joined the chat**

**From [Frogger]:** YOOOO DID POPS LET YOU OUT OF HOUSE ARREST ALREADY?! 

**From [Rockstarr]:** Jesus Todd I wasnt under house arrest. Ive been at school all week. 

**From [Frogger]:** UM YEAH I NOTICED. You're FAMOUS man! You're ALL OVER the news. RAMPAGING LOCAL MUTANT ATTACKS COP! HUNDREDS TRAPPED IN PARKING LOT BY BROKEN ROAD! STAR-CROSSED SCHOOL PLAY CANCELLED AFTER OPENING NIGHT! MORE AT SIX! 

**From [Rockstarr]:** great Todd that makes me feel way better 

**From [Frogger]:** hey thanks man I try. have you heard from pricksilver? 

**From [Frogger]:** Tell him I'm mad he's been ditching us. I SAW him at school today  & he didn't even say hi 

**From [Rockstarr]:** why would he talk to me? 

**From [Frogger]:** um cuz you two are a Thing??? Duh. 

**From [Rockstarr]:** HOW THE [expletive redacted] DO YOU KNOW 

**From [Rockstarr]:** you know what i dont care. 

**From [Rockstarr]:** We arent anymore. Its been over for almost two months. 

**From [Frogger]:** so you're on a break. you're still crazy about each other. it's cool. 

**From [Rockstarr]:** No. he doesnt want me. 

**From [Frogger]:** Oh. 

**From [Frogger]:** well [expletive redacted] man i'm sorry. are you OK? 

**From [Rockstarr]:** do i look okay 

**From [Frogger]:** Ehhh lemme see. You're a little pimply and bloated 

**From [Rockstarr]:** RHETORICAL QUESTION TOAD. RHETORICAL. QUESTION. 

**From [Frogger]:** alright alright just trying to lighten the mood. stop shaking the library, you're already in deep sh*t, don't make it worse 

**[Rockstarr] has changed their username to [RockLoser]**

**From [Frogger]:** oh lanceman. don't. you know i love you. you're making me sad. 

**From [RockLoser]:** everything sucks right now. 

* * *

Wanda Maximoff was starting to feel better, though her fever had burned so hot on that first night that Logan had said the "hospital" word. 

"No," she'd grunted, though dancing white and black lights were partially obscuring her vision. _"No."_

No more hospitals. No more needles and scraping knives and words like _"collect a spinal fluid sample"_ and latex gloved fingers forcing their way into her mouth and _teeth pulled_ and-- 

Logan had sighed and rubbed a cold, wet cloth over her burning face and neck. "Your brain's gonna fry, kiddo." 

He hadn't taken her to the hospital, though. Had simply spooned ice chips into her mouth and held her hair back as she vomitted into a bowl. 

She'd balked at the little cup of medicinal-smelling gloop he'd offered her. 

" _No!_ " 

Only then had he started losing his patience. 

"It's this or the hospital," he'd snarled, and she'd raised both hands, blue sparks rising threateningly from her palms. He hadn't backed down. She hadn't struck. 

She drank the gloop. 

And now, well... 

She looked around the room she'd been brought to, as overwhelmed as she was fascinated. The bed was big- twice as big as her bed in the institute. Big enough for two. The sheets were flannel, rumpled and stained with her now-dried sweat. Slowly, so slowly, she slid her legs out of bed. She was still wearing her light scrubs from the institute, and ripe as they were, it was still a relief to see them. If Logan had taken her _clothes_ she'd have been Very upset. 

She stank, but it didn't much bother her. 

She was wobbly and dizzy when she stood. Hungry. That bothered her a little more. 

The room was messy. The floor was covered in clothes. She bent and picked up a black t-shirt, looking it over. Sniffed it. It didn't smell great either. She carried it with her like a talisman as she cautiously explored the rest of the room, a hand on the wall for balance. 

There were big shiny pictures of cars on the walls, and girls wearing little two-piece swimsuits doing silly arches with their backs that didn't look very comfortable. Sometimes the girls were on top of the cars. None of them had hair under their arms. Wanda had hair under her arms. 

There was a desk piled with papers and heavy-looking books, and she looked at those next. Many of the papers were covered in messy handwriting- handwriting she recognized from a letter she'd read a thousand times. _So this is Lance's room._

Knowing this made her feel a little better, though it shouldn't have. She didn't _know_ him. He was a stranger. (She felt like she knew him, though. Had fantasized him and Fred and Todd coming to talk to her when she'd felt particularly lonely, the way people came to talk to each other on TV.) 

One paper, half-crumpled and thrown in the direction of the trash, caught her attention. It had started as an assignment on "Rhetorical vs Literal"- Wanda hadn't ever studied _that_ with her tutors- but had devolved into her brother's name written over and over in Lance's hand, the graphite growing darker as though he'd been pressing very hard with his pencil until the page finally tore. 

For some reason, the sight of it made Wanda's heart pound. She stared at it for a long time before moving on to other discoveries. 

Amidst the things in his closet- all of them interesting, all of them worth studying in great detail- she found something that made her smile tentatively. She'd always been interested in instruments, so she knelt and pulled the guitar into her lap, running her fingers over the strings. They were cold and sharp, stiffer than she'd anticipated. It hurt her fingers a little to pluck them hard enough to make noise. But _what a sound!_ A small smile appeared as she repeated the motion. 

A knock on the door caused her to jolt, backing into the wall, holding the guitar defensively in front of her body. 

"Wanda? You awake? Can I come in?" 

It was Logan's voice. Nobody had ever asked her if they _could_ enter a room she occupied before. She thought it over. 

"I am awake," she answered, though it hurt her sore, dry throat to speak. "I don't want you to come in now." 

She'd said it for the sake of saying it, not expecting him to listen. But- "Okay. If I come back in a few minutes, do you think you'll be ready to see me?" 

It was more than hunger that made her dizzy now. _Okay?_ What a strange, strange man. She was proud of herself for sounding halfway normal when she replied, "That would be fine." 

She listened to his feet shuffle off further into the house. The _house!_ The house she'd imagined so many times... She was _here._ She was in Lance's room, but there was _more._

Her head spun. A great fear engulfed her. Surely this was a dream. Surely, it would all be taken from her any minute now. What to _do?_

Very carefully she set the guitar down. She often bathed and changed from one outfit to another when she knew Logan was coming to see her. It felt only natural now to stand, to face the wall and strip off her scrubs and pull Lance's shirt on instead. She shuffled through the piles until she found pants, too. Jeans. They were heavy. They were too big. 

She _liked_ them. 

She left her scrubs on the floor and, when Logan knocked again, stood at the ready. "Yes, you may come in now." 

It was déjà vu to see Logan stepping through a door towards her. His visits had become one of her favorite things- a close second to chocolate pudding at dinner. 

Logan looked at her. 

She looked back at him. 

Then she smiled, a little. "Hello, Logan." 

"Hey, Wanda." 

She squirmed excitedly at that. This was _real!_

"I am hungry," she told him. He nodded, like this was the most normal thing in the world. 

"What do you want? I can scramble some eggs, or heat up leftover soup..." 

And so it began. 

* * *

"Is there any particular reason you've been avoiding Charles?" 

Damn Hank. Damn, perceptive Hank. Logan shook his head. "I've been busy. And Chuck and I have been butting heads for a while now; you know that." 

Hank regarded Logan stonily over his teacup, frowning suspiciously. His eyes seemed to pierce right through Logan's head and out the other side. "You're hiding something. I don't like it when you lie to me." 

Well, fuck. 

Logan rubbed the back of his neck, sighing deeply. It wasn't so much that he minded telling Hank about Wanda (it could only help), but if he told _Hank_ , then _Charles_ might pick up on it in his thoughts, and then... 

They were seated at the recently built breakfast bar in the kitchen, dandelion tea and a plate of shortbread cookies between them. In the main room, Lance was already dozing on the sofa. Or _pretending_ to, anyway. Upstairs, he heard the floor creaking under light feet as Wanda sorted through the schoolbooks in Lance's closet. 

"You're right," Logan finally admitted. "I _am_ hiding something from you. I need you to let it go for now, okay? At least until I figure out what to do." 

Now it was Hank's turn to sigh, exhaling over his cup so that the steam wafted outward before dissipating. He'd found himself with many free nights, now that the play was officially cancelled. Logan felt guilty about this, but... "Has your lawyer said anything else about the Lance stuff?" 

Lance had narrowly avoided being arrested on opening night. Police had come to their house for him, but Hank and social worker Keisha Morrow had gotten there first, and had not backed down, stating laws and clauses and _paroles_ and... And it was a good thing they did, because if anyone had tried to take Lance away from him that night, police or no, Logan would have gutted them on the spot. _They pointed. A gun. At_ my _son._

Even thinking about it now, in the calm of the kitchen, filled him with a sickening, gut-churning fury. They'd _hit_ Todd in a full-blown squabble, too. Some... some cowardly loser with a protest sign who hadn't taken kindly to the mutant teenager mocking his movement. Todd, smirking, had wound his tongue around a particularly nasty hand-painted sign, wrenching it easily from his grasp, and... 

Logan _growled._ "I want them dead." 

Hank, used to these frequent outbursts, rubbed a soothing paw over Logan's back, digging his claws in on just the right side of painful. "Trust me. Beastly as it is to admit, I am feeling much the same way as you are right now. But--" 

There was always a _but._

"But," Logan finished for him. "We have to do it the _right way._ " Lord, those words felt like bitter ash in his mouth. He didn't want to do things the _right way_. He wanted blood. He wanted to stop seeing the fear on Lance's face, played again and again and again on all the news stations, and in his mind every time he closed his eyes. He wanted to stop hearing the _thud_ as a fist landed on Todd's face. He wanted... 

"Did you mean to draw your claws?" Hank asked pointedly, dragging Logan back into the present moment. He already knew the answer to this question- _no, of course not_ \- but he wanted to give Logan the opportunity to regain his composure before things got ugly. 

Logan gritted his teeth and looked down at the shining metal protruding from between his knuckles. 

Hank took his chin in a firm grip, meeting his eyes authoritatively. "I need you to be in better control than this, Logan. I need you to _focus._ I can't afford to have you losing it when we're under such scrutiny." 

The animal inside Logan resisted this. If it were anyone else, he'd have lashed out. But _Hank..._

Logan forced himself to let go. To trust. He closed his eyes tightly, furrowed his brow, and pressed his face hard into Hank's paw. "Please," he said hoarsely. "Don't let me fuck things up any worse." It was an unfair thing to ask. Hank had more than enough on his plate already. He didn't need to be responsible for Logan, too. But-- 

"Never. I'm always in your corner, Mr. Howlett." 

There was something about his voice that made Logan open his eyes again. The look on Hank's face had shifted, almost imperceptibly. He smelled like... 

Logan shivered. 

Hank saw this, and his gaze darkened. 

The hand gripping his chin slid lower, wrapping loosely around Logan's throat, more of a caress than a restraint now. Logan swallowed reflexively, and then- 

_Oh._ Maybe they... Maybe they _shouldn't_ continue this conversation here, where Lance was still definitely eavesdropping. 

Logan pulled back carefully, sheathing his claws again and clearing his throat where the ghostly fuzz of roughened paw-pads still tingled. He pressed his calf tentatively against Hank's, feeling his heart tripping a little in his chest. Had he just gone and complicated something in their easy friendship? Well, it certainly wasn't a one-sided buzz, that was for sure. Not with Hank smelling like _that._

Hank primly sipped his tea as though nothing had happened. The scent lessened, but was still present, lingering between them like a haze. Logan felt the beginnings of arousal's slow burn in his chest. Hank did not pull his leg away. 

"The lawyers?" Logan asked weakly.

"Yes, that. Keisha and I are working on it. If we play our cards rights, Lance will have to speak in front of a judge, but not a jury. Hopefully he can get off clean with community service, and..." 

Hank cleared his throat; took another sip of tea. Logan's apprehension grew. He pulled his leg off of Hank's, though he immediately missed the contact. "And _what,_ Bigfoot?" 

Hank sighed. It seemed to be a sighing sort of night. "Logan, I've had to pull a lot of favors for this. A public act of mutant violence affects _all_ mutants, not just us." 

Logan heard Lance shift a little, guiltily, on the couch. 

"You saw the news," Logan protested. "You saw what they did to him." 

"I did. But the _world_ saw what he can do. People are scared. We need to show them that Lance isn't frightening." 

That was all well and good in theory, but Lance _was_ frightening. Terribly so. As far as Logan was aware, there were no limits to his abilities. Maybe he really could tear the world apart. Maybe the world _deserved_ to be torn apart. 

Logan had to stop that train of suspiciously Magneto-like thought in its tracks, and quickly. 

"So what sort of favors have you pulled?" Logan asked. "What's the cost?" 

"An interview for The Intent." 

Lance, being interviewed for a widely-watched television program? Oh, _that_ would go just great. 

Hank wasn't done. "With the other boys." 

"Hank!" 

"I know, I _know_! But if we spin it right, it could lead to some very positive publicity. It could do worlds of good for teenaged mutants, Logan." 

"Can't we just send Scott in with Lance instead-?" 

Oh, and now he was sounding like Charles. Scott would have been ideal for the task. A polished, clean-cut star-student, already accustomed to public speaking and high-class etiquette, an all-around portrait of the idealized, Americanized youth, speaking for the mutant cause like Charles had groomed him to do since early childhood. Logan felt a sharp pang of guilt and sent a mental apology to the eighteen-year-old, recalling their Thanksgiving conversation. 

Even Hank was looking vaguely disappointed with him. Logan shook his head, refocusing. "It has to be my boys, huh?" 

"Fred and Todd, in particular. There is footage of Todd's conflict with the protestor. We need to call out the public and draw their attention to the fact that these _are_ children; underprivileged children being held to ridiculous societal standards. We need to humanize them, for lack of a better word." 

It felt dirty, exploiting the boys like this. "If they say no, we ain't doing it." If the boys said no, Scott and Jean would step in to do it with Lance instead, likely without even being asked. They knew their place. They knew their role in this world. And that awareness felt dirty, too. 

"I fuckin' hate politics," Logan groaned, rubbing his tired, strained eyes. 

"Unfortunately, darling, mutants are politicized by existing." 

"I _know_ that." Logan stood, tugging Hank's arm. "Come on. I need some fresh air." 

They stepped from the kitchen and into the main room, where Logan used the remote control to turn the television off. Despite his awareness that Lance was faking sleep, seeing his bare leg atop his blanket still stopped Logan short. Chuffing irritably, he reached and flicked the corner of the blanket over the exposed limb before tugging Hank out the door and into the bracing air outside. 

He released Hank, and was gratified as the other mutant accompanied him, without question, on a slow lap around the block. It was good. _This_ was good, but he was still unable to stop himself from sniffing covertly, trying to catch a hint of Pietro. It'd become a habit. 

He'd had his hands full all week nursing Wanda back to health. Lance had wisely hidden her in his room. She'd stunk of her father, and of heavy sedatives, and had brought nothing but the clothes on her back and a toy cat in her arms. The withdrawal symptoms had been plenty terrifying and had yet to finish. 

When he wasn't caring for Wanda, he was searching for her brother. He kept catching fresh hints of the kid's scent around town, and the boys insisted he was still elusively glimpsed in school, but he hadn't dared leave town long enough to return to Wanda's institute and demand answers. He didn't want to leave Lance, either, in case the cops came back for him. Maybe now that Wanda was feeling better, he might chance the excursion, but what if his departure was the precise moment that Pietro chose to return? He felt trapped; homebound; torn in two. 

_It's not safe. They're not safe. None of them are safe._

"Logan." Hank stopped his racing thoughts with a glance. He always appeared so calm, so controlled, yet Logan knew that he, too, had a beast just under the surface. He was so much younger than Logan. All things considered, Logan should be the one in better control. So how was it possible... 

"How do you do it, Bigfoot?" he asked, voice cracking in a sudden burst of honesty. "I'm losing it. I'm... I can't... I can't take much more of this." 

"You can," Hank replied, without a moment's hesitation. "And you will. Because you have to." 

Logan closed his eyes, nodding. Forcing his overwhelming feelings of anxiety and inadequacy back into their boxes, taping them up, storing them on the shelves of his mind. He tried to take strength from the words. Hank was _right._

"You're not alone," Hank reminded him. "I'm here. Every mutant in Xavier's mansion is on your side. This is _our_ problem. Unless you're ready to tell me that additional little thing you're hiding?" 

_Additional little thing._ If the 'additional little thing' was a sixteen-year-old with untold destructive powers who'd spent the past who-knew-how-long in a straightjacket now hidden upstairs because their friend and employer had openly threatened to have her put down like a rabid dog, then no, Logan wasn't ready to share his secret. He was juggling too much, and if he dropped any of the balls, they were all going to be screwed. 

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he confessed, when Hank paused in front of one of their neighbor's flower gardens, admiring the stone figurines shaped like tortoises. "You're my lifeline, but I'm afraid I'm asking too much from you, and then you'll get burned out." 

"You overestimate me. I'm not nearly as effective as you think; I just have good connections." Hank waved his concerns off, his attention now drawn to some optimistically planted marigolds. It was still cold enough that they'd most likely die soon, but for now their sweet scent kissed the night. "Don't build me up into some invincible hero in your mind." 

They resumed their walking when Hank had looked his fill, their shadows stretching long behind him on the sidewalk from the orange glow of streetlights. Logan's eye-watering exhaustion, coupled with their complete solitude, made it feel as though they were the only people left alive in the still, silent world. 

"When this is over," Logan decided, as they turned a corner and made their meandering path back to the boarding house. Some of the tension in his chest had unlocked, and it was easier to breathe again. Hank had that effect. "I'm taking you somewhere nice. Whatever nerdy-ass locale captures your fuzzy blue heart; it's all yours." 

"I _could_ use a vacation," Hank admitted, a little smile on his lips. "It'd be nice to blow off some steam." 

He extracted his car keys from his pocket as they reached his station wagon. "It's late," he said apologetically. "I should be getting home." 

It _was_ late. Just past twelve. And tomorrow was a school day. Logan watched Hank unlock his car door, feeling conflicted in body and mind. 

_Fuck it,_ he decided, and turned his brain off, moving to stand between Hank and the silly old car. He looked up at the other man, his back to the station wagon. Taking Hank's arms, he pulled him closer, tilting his head back to expose his throat in blatant animal invitation. 

"If you ever, uh. Wanted to 'blow off some steam' with me, or..." Words weren't always his strong suit. Words were _rarely_ his strong suit. He put a palm on Hank's chest instead, feeling his heart beat steady and true through his Bayville athletic jacket. 

Hank watched him. The scent that bloomed anew from his skin was musky and wild, and Logan closed his eyes, resisting the urge to bury his face in Hank's neck and breathe it in more deeply. But-- 

"Logan, are you offering yourself to me as _payment_?" 

Was that disapproval in his tone? Trust Hank to turn a friendly mutual exchange into a moral issue. 

"It ain't like that, bub. Just think of it as me finally pulling my own weight around here." He flashed a wry grin. "It ain't exactly a hardship for me. What do you say?" 

Hank scrutinized him for a long moment, eyes piercing. The heady scent didn't lessen, but did not increase, either. When he leaned in, Logan's breath caught, and he laughed a little nervously. 

But Hank only brought his mouth close to Logan's ear to say, "Thank you for a lovely evening, Mr. Howlett. I'll be calling you in the morning about the interview." 

It was a dismissal, plain as day. He reached around Logan for the door, and Logan had to step aside for his friend to slide into his car. 

Logan watched as he pulled from the driveway and around the corner, feeling cold and rejected. _Ouch._ He laughed bitterly at himself. _Damnit. I_ am _a stupid old man._ If things hadn't been weird before, they certainly would be now. 

He stood out for a solid minute, staring dimly at the last of the melted snow, ugly and gray over the gravel-lined driveway. A noise caught his attention and, expecting a cat, he turned back to the house in time to catch sight of Pietro climbing hand-over-hand up the empty trellis and into his own bedroom window. 

Logan bolted into the house, past Lance on the couch and up the stairs, hoping to catch Pietro before he disappeared again. He hadn't spent much time in this room- Pietro kept it tidy, so he only occasionally ran the broom over the wood floor or dropped off a load of laundry- and found the teenager packing his clothes from his dresser into a bag. 

Pietro stiffened at the sight of Logan panting in his doorway, taking a harried step towards the window. 

"You can't make me stay," Pietro said sharply, warningly. "Father told me he brought _her_ here. I think he wants her to see me and freak out." 

Logan said nothing, only regarded the boy for a long moment. When Pietro resumed packing his clothes, Logan took three steps forward and wrapped thick arms around his neck, hugging him fiercely. "You scared me," he said emphatically. "You scared the hell out of me." His shoulders shook. Furious; relieved. His teeth were gritted so hard that it was difficult to get the necessary words out. "What did I _say_ about telling me before you went out?" 

Pietro twitched as though shaking off a pesky fly, jaw set. His tone was dismissive, snappish. "Well then, _stop_ worrying. You don't need me. You have my superior replacement now. Enjoy." 

Oh, anger again. White-hot _fury._ Logan tightened his grip, forehead buried in Pietro's back. He bared his teeth, unable to stop himself from his shaking, or the growl rising inside his throat. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt _exhausted._ "How dare you. How _fuckin'_ dare you?!" 

Pietro squirmed, trying to twist around, so Logan loosened his grip, but kept hold of his wrist. Anything to stop him from bolting. "Well, _what?_ " he snapped, meeting Logan's eyes, expression hooded. "How dare I _what_?" 

Logan struggled to keep his voice even. He wanted, so badly, to yell. To _roar._ It was a fight not to say something he'd regret later. "Pietro Django Maximoff, if you still think I don't love _you_ after all this time, then your high grades don't mean shit because you're an _idiot._ " 

* * *

Freddie was just brushing his teeth after a substantial midnight snack when the door to the bathroom swung open, hard enough to bounce off the opposite wall with a gunshot of a bang. 

"Yikes!" Fred jumped hard enough to make the floor rattle. He inhaled a burning lungful of toothpaste and had to bend double, coughing into the sink. 

When he glanced up, he saw, reflected in the mirror, a girl turn tail and run back into Lance's bedroom, skittish as a colt. 

Oh. That was the first glimpse of Wanda Maximoff he'd caught since Lance had carried her in from the snow seven days prior. 

Fred coughed some more, eyes watering, and cupped his hands under the sink faucet, catching water to drink until the minty burning subsided. Then he straightened and dried his face and hands off with a towel. 

Approaching Lance's door was a nerve-wracking process. Fred knew what Wanda could do. Logan had forbidden them from doing anything to startle or upset her until they figured out what they were going to do. But, well, he'd already both startled _and_ upset her by doing nothing at all, so... 

He lightly tapped the door. "Wanda?" 

She didn't answer. 

"Wanda, I'm finished in the bathroom if you need to use it. Sorry. I didn't mean to scare ya. I'm, uh. I'm Fred, by the way." 

He turned to leave, but her voice stopped him; hoarse and whispery and a little spooky in the dim hallway. 

"Can I see him?" 

Fred cocked his head. "Who?" 

"The cat. He is yours, correct?" 

Oh. Fred wasn't so sure about that. What if she hurt Fluffernutter? He didn't think she'd do so intentionally, but, well. Pietro had scared him with stories of her lack of control. He remembered all those holes in Logan's clothes after he visited her... "I don't think so." 

She fell silent for so long that he wondered if the conversation was finished. He took a step towards his bedroom before Lance's door opened a crack and blue eyes peered out at him from the gloom. She held something out to him: it was the green toy cat Pietro had made for her. 

Unsure of what else to do, Fred took it. It was tiny in his huge hand. 

"You sent those comics to me," Wanda said slowly in that low voice of hers. She pronounced 'comics' very deliberately, as though the word felt foreign on her tongue. 

"Yes," Fred agreed. "Did you like them?" 

"They were strange." 

"Oh..." 

"I liked them." 

"I have more. You can read any you want now that you're here." 

She didn't respond to this, only stared at him with unblinking blue eyes. She looked a _lot_ like her father. Fred was reminded of the way children sometimes stared at him during library reading times, as though he were an exhibit of dinosaur bones in a museum. He was used to it, but he didn't necessarily like it. 

"Your hair is purple." 

"I dyed it." 

"Could you 'dye' my hair also?" 

Fred considered. Her hair was long, but tangled in matted snarls. It'd be a nightmare just to run a brush through it, much like Todd's had been before Fred had started trimming it for him. He trimmed Lance's, too, when he asked for it. Once he'd even trimmed Logan's hair. 

"I'd have to wash and bleach it first. Your hair is dark. I'd need to take your color out of it before I could add a different color." 

"May I stroke yours?" 

Children often requested this from him, as well. It was near-habit by now to drop onto a knee and bow his head, as though he were being knighted. "Go ahead." 

Wanda ran the flat of her hand over his mohawk without a hint of shyness, paused, and then repeated the motion against the grain. She was not particularly rough, but took no pains to be gentle, either. He shivered at the weird sensation, like he did when Fluffer licked him. Wanda's facial expression did not change. 

"Okay," she decided, stepping back again. "That's enough." She took her cat from his hands, retreated into Lance's room, and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot claim credit for "Pricksilver." I read that in [[Wencherella's "Discoveries"](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6066444/1/Discoveries)] and just about laughed my ass off. That entire fic is golden.


	18. Silver Pawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kiss a frog, get a prince. Kiss a toad, and...?

**Five things that held Wanda's attention, now that unlimited access to television was starting to lose its novelty:**

1\. The way weeds grew long and green through cracks in the sidewalk.  
Her life had been smooth, sterile concrete for so long that it was worth braving a few footsteps outside just to look at them before losing her nerve and returning to the spare bedroom they were slowly setting up for her. 

2\. All of the interesting things in the bathroom.  
She'd soaked in the tub after the boys left for school. There were bottles of goo and _bars_ of goo and _cans_ of goo, and they all smelled like a different boy. She had climbed out of the tub and sat cross-legged before the cabinet under the sink, dumping out boxes of Q-tips and razorheads and condoms and rolling the bottle of blue mouthwash over the tile floor where long cut strands of her hair still lay. Logan made her clean the mess when he found her, but it was worth it. 

3\. The way the buttons on the telephone lit up green when it was lifted from its cradle.  
She'd lifted and dropped it back down multiple times to watch that green fade and glow, to hear the pleasant hum of a dial tone until a mechanical voice instructed her _"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again..."_

4\. The photographs on the refrigerator.  
She'd looked them all over, arranging and rearranging them by color or subject. The pictures of Pietro were still hard to look at. He was pretty like mother, but he looked into the camera as though the world bowed to him the exact way that father did. She was too curious to look away, but it hurt too much to _keep_ looking. Finally, she'd flipped them all over so only the blank back surfaces showed.

5\. The bus-stop.  
It was only a blue bench, and she could only see it when she climbed onto Todd's bed and stuck her head out the window, craning her neck. People were often sitting on that blue bench, and sometimes a bus would come and take them away. Every time it happened, she'd demand to know where they were going. She and Todd had made a game out of the speculation. ("That dude's a hitman going to axe his next victim, Babycakes. And that tall drink of water's about to dump her boyfriend for his cousin, the jerk.") 

She already had a plan set for if they ever tried to send her back to the institute. She'd take all the money out of Fred's wallet and walk down to that bus-stop and have the driver take her far away, where nobody knew who she was. She hoped it didn't come to that, but it was good to be prepared. 

She left Todd's window behind and beat Logan to the dryer when it buzzed, drawing an armful of hot fluffy sheets out to bury her face in, breathing that nice lavender scent. Logan laughed when he saw her. 

"Who's sheets are these?" she asked. She enjoyed the glimpses she caught of the other boys' rooms when they did chores together like this. She hoped they were Fred's, as she _still_ wanted a look at the cat... 

Logan cleared his throat, expression changing subtly. "Pietro's, actually." 

Wanda stilled. "Oh." 

She thrust the bundle at Logan, relieved when he took them from her. Pietro was staying at a hotel for the time being and _had_ to call Logan twice daily; once before school and once before bed. Those were phone calls she both anticipated and dreaded, hoping to catch the sound of her brother's voice but also fearing that she might. 

( _He doesn't want to see me._ ) 

She didn't want to see him, either. Well, she _usually_ didn't. Sometimes... 

( _I am scared I am angry I am scared I am angry... I am_ lonesome.) 

"You're sparking," Logan informed her. Sure enough, blue curls of mist were rising from her hands, singeing the gloves she'd borrowed from Lance. A bottle of detergent wobbled on the edge of the laundry-room shelf, threatening to spill its soapy contents over the floor. She forced herself to breathe deeply until it stopped. 

"Doin' good, Sparkles," Logan complimented, and then bore the clean sheets off to the room she had never- would never- enter. 

Logan didn't follow much of a routine, per se, instead tromping around the house completing tasks on some internal list. When she saw him sitting at the household's computer she found herself peering over his shoulder to watch him work. "I'm thinkin' about takin' some online classes," he explained, scrolling the mouse over pictures of brightly smiling twenty-year-olds in graduation gowns, holding textbooks to their chests. It was a website for an online university. "This world just keeps on leavin' me behind. I can hardly keep up." 

He sounded a little sad. Wanda could relate. The world had passed her by, too. 

"Could _I_ go to school online?" she asked, not because she especially wanted to, but because new ideas intrigued her. Because she liked asking questions and having someone answer them. 

He tilted his head side to side, considering. "It could work. Might be a good idea, even." 

Then he was up again, moving with energy towards the kitchen. He never really _walked_ anywhere; he strode purposefully as though to make up for his compact size with a rapid pace. Wanda followed at his heels in the way that made him smile and call her 'Duckling.' 

As he turned on his favorite television show, the one where people kissed a lot and fought even more, and began doing what he called 'meal prep', she turned to the fridge and pulled the jar of mayonnaise out. She unscrewed the lid, about to dip her finger inside to lick it off. Logan made a distressed noise. 

"Wanda." 

Right. Spoons. She'd received a Spoon Lecture after she'd sat on the kitchen floor and sampled _everything_ , from Crisco to uncooked rice to mustard and pickles and soy sauce. Fred had found her like that and, laughing, had sat next to her, demonstrating new flavor combinations. (Her favorite was still Oreos dipped in peanut butter.) 

A dizzy spell overtook her when she turned with spoon and mayonnaise to watch what Logan was doing at the sink, peeling his way through a small mountain of potatoes. (Everyone in the house was interesting to spy on, especially when they didn't know she was doing it.) 

He spun as she swayed, clutching the counter for balance, a cold sweat breaking across her forehead. It lasted a long minute, dots and swirls obscuring her vision, until she could again straighten. "Why do I still feel sick?" Wanda asked Logan, annoyed, panting a little. The dizzy spells were less frequent than they had been, but she still didn't like them at all. 

Satisfied that she wasn't going to collapse, Logan resumed his potato peeling. "You've been on all kinds of meds for years. Now all of a sudden you're not on any. That's bad for you. It's making your brain and body go cuckoo." 

"Cuckoo?" 

"Nuts. Bonkers. Haywire. Your body doesn't know what to do without all those chemicals its gotten used to." He wiggled his peeler. She took a sliver of potato skin from the sink and put it into her mouth, then spat it out when it didn't taste good. 

"Are you going to force me to take medication again?" 

He winced. "I don't have any plans to. I don't want to. But it'd be better if I knew _what_ they had you on so I could research what withdrawls you're going through. They really messed us both up, bringing you here without any sort of prep." 

Not 'they'. Just father. ( _"He wants my children, does he? Let's see just how well he can handle them, then..."_ ) 

Wanda took another piece of potato peel, wondering if it'd taste better this time. It didn't. "Paliperidone, twelve milligrams. Quetiapine, 300 milligrams. Fluoxetine, as needed..." 

Logan, blinking back his surprise, dropped his potato and dove for the pad and pencil beside the telephone, then began scribbling her words down as she spoke. By the time she was finished, he had half a page filled up with the names of different drugs. 

"And birth control," she added as an afterthought, thinking of how her stomach had been cramping that morning in a familiar way it hadn't done in years. 

"Birth control?" 

"They said I'm less manageable when I'm menstruating." She hadn't felt any different during that time, but it wasn't as though she were given a say in the matter. "They wanted to remove my ovaries when I was twelve to reduce hormonal influence, but that made father angry." 

Logan made a small growling noise as though he, too, were angry, but dutifully added this to his list. "Gotcha. I don't know what any of the rest of those are, but I'll read up on it." 

"And make me less sick?" 

"Hopefully." 

He peeled the last of the potatoes and lined them, neat as soldiers, into a deep black pan, then set to pouring olive oil (bad taste, fun texture), salt, and pepper over them all. He pushed the whole thing into the oven, set a timer, and then turned back to face her. 

"I want to hug you," Logan said clearly, meeting her eyes. She thought it over. 

"Okay," she decided. 

She'd used her powers to throw Lance into a wall a few days ago because, when they'd been looking over a phonebook-sized catalogue for housewares together ( _"Okay_ fine _then, we'll get you both of the lava lamps, but we were looking for curtains, remember?"_ ) he'd hooked his chin on her shoulder. She'd decided she didn't want to be touched at exactly that moment, and the results had been unfortunate. 

She'd been made to apologize to Lance, and now everyone had to ask before touching her... And _she_ had to ("verbally, Wanda, _verbally,_ ") tell them when she'd had enough. 

Logan stepped forward and wound his arms around her waist, pulling her tightly against him. He was shorter than she, so she had to stoop a little to hug him back. It was nice, the pressure around her. She'd gotten used to the cold metal energy his bones emanated. 

"They shouldn't have done those things to you," he said, his voice muffled by her shoulder. "I want you to know that they were wrong to do it." 

Who was wrong? The nurses? Father? What things? It was too vague a statement for her preferences, so she stayed quiet, brushing the inside of her wrist back and forth over the scratchy stubble on his cheek. It was a good texture. 

"Okay," she said again, after the counting-down clock on the oven showed one, then two minutes passing. "That's enough." 

He let her go. She hadn't worried he wouldn't. 

* * *

Scott Summers had grown accustomed to carting Todd around after school. He didn't do it every day, but it happened often enough now that Kitty and Jean were used to cramming in the convertible with Kurt's boyfriend. It was a little weird- the Brotherhood would always be a little weird to them- but it wasn't unpleasant. Todd was... Todd was _okay._

"Yo Summers!" he chirruped today, vaulting over the doors of the convertible and into Kurt's lap. The kid had an impressive high-jump. He'd have taken Olympic gold had mutants still been permitted to participate in sporting events. "One day closer to graduation, yeah?" 

"Thank _heaven,_ " Jean groaned, rubbing at her temples where a killer headache had been brewing all day. "Senioritis is _real_ and I can't wait to get out of here." 

Todd laughed. He had a croaky laugh befitting his mutation. It used to make the hair on the back of Scott's neck stand on end. Now it just gave him a grin. 

"That's what Lance was saying too. Lucky. You guys get to be _done_ in a couple months." 

Well, done with high school, anyway. Then came college, and then grad school... It just wouldn't Do for _Scott Summers_ to have anything less than an Ivy League education if he were to go into politics. He thought of all the university acceptance letters cluttering his desk, and sighed. Harvard still hadn’t gotten back to him. The anxiety was building. 

( _Remember, you_ owe _it to the professor to…_ ) 

Jean, sensing her boyfriend's muted distress, gave the back of his neck a gentle squeeze. He melted a little into her hand, directing a mental **Love you** her way. He knew she'd caught it by the quirk to her smile. She was, perhaps, the only person in the mansion who faced a fraction of that same driving pressure to succeed as he did. 

"Speaking of Alvers," Scott said a little too casually, as he started the engine up, backing carefully from the newly renovated school parking lot. "I'm gonna drop the girls off today and then take you home, Tolanski. The professor asked me to speak to him about the... the _thing_ in April." He still couldn't wrap his mind around the thought of Lance, Todd, and Fred speaking on nationwide television for the mutant cause. It was absolute madness. Not that Lance hadn't already gotten his fair share of televised attention recently... 

Scott tried not to think about it too often. Tried not to recall pausing the television in his room in time to see Alvers' positively _terrified_ face, with angry hands grasping at his arms and clothes, the standard-issue semi-automatic aimed for his chest... _They could have killed him. They absolutely, without a_ doubt _would have killed him._

No matter how obnoxious, reckless, frustrating, cocky, and _arrogant_ Alvers was, he, like Scott, was an orphaned, destructively-mutated teenager carrying the weight of leadership on his shoulders. The thought of Lance bleeding out on the side of the road while everyone who could have helped, himself included, was trapped inside not fifty _feet_ away made him feel sick to his stomach. 

"Does Lance know?" Todd asked cannily, the trickster's smirk creasing his wide mouth suggesting that he very well knew the answer, and Scott sighed. 

"No. I didn't tell him. He'd have run for it if he knew I was coming to talk about etiquette and buy him some decent clothes." _And try to talk him into a haircut..._

Todd snorted, no doubt thinking the same thing. "Good luck with _that_." 

When Scott glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw that Kitty was leaning against one of Kurt's shoulders, flipping through a novel. Todd was slumped against the other, knees bent and playing on a DS. Kurt was stroking disguised fingers through Todd's hair as he stared out the window. They looked so comfortable together, so _young._ The sight, for some reason, made Scott feel ancient, vulnerable, and very protective. 

**Am I too young for a midlife crisis?** Scott asked Jean. She shot him a wry Look that suggested the answer to his question depended on how long he intended to live. 

He dropped Kitty and Jean off at the gates of the mansion, tugging hopefully on his girlfriend's sleeve until she bent, smirking, to kiss him. Then he was again backing from the circular driveway and making his familiar way to the Brotherhood boarding house. 

. 

Todd ran for a pee-break into the downstairs bathroom, snickering to himself when he heard Lance's raised voice from the vents of his bedroom. 

"Summers?! Get out, what the hell, why are--" 

"Put some pants on. Meet me downstairs in five. Your room is a disaster." 

Oh, to be a toad on the wall at _that_ particular outing! Summers sure had a 'fun' evening ahead of him. Hank was paying Pietro to make clothes for Todd and Fred for the upcoming TV interview. He already had their measurements, but Todd had grown just a little taller in the past few months, so he had to be measured again. 

He'd also grown more dark spots on his back, but that was something he just wasn't... Wasn't mentally _ready_ to deal with just then. Hopefully Pietro wouldn't comment on them as he fitted Todd for his new clothes. If Todd thought about it, he'd start thinking about how some mutations just continued, seemingly without end, in their evolving, and then it became very hard to breathe. 

He heard Scott's feet creak the wooden floors as he again descended to join Kurt in the kitchen. He was lucky Lance hadn't _thrown_ him down the stairs. 

Todd remained in the bathroom a while longer, hoping to overhear what Scott thought about all that was going on. Hoping to maybe pick up some of the mansion's thoughts on the whole ongoing ordeal, on Hanks' demands that it not take place until after they'd finished their final exams. Instead-- 

"So, like. How does Toad manage to... you know. Do you two... _Kiss_ and stuff? I mean, he's got the _tongue..._ " 

Todd's smile froze on his face. 

"Scott, don't." Kurt huffed. "Stop being a buttface." 

"I _wasn't!_ I was just... Call it morbid curiosity, I guess," Scott deflected, defensive as he heard the genuine irritation in his best friend's usually jovial voice. "Never _mind_..." 

"As well as you 'manage' with your glasses, or I 'manage' with my teeth. Is that a good enough answer for you? My boyfriend isn't here for your 'morbid curiosity.'" Oh, Kurt was _mad._ Todd hadn't heard him use such an acerbic tone before. 

There was a long, awkward pause. Todd felt himself oscillating between cringing embarrassment and a deep affection for Kurt. People rarely stuck up for him in that sort of way. All his life he'd overheard people, even grown adults, making comments of leering desire or cringing disgust at his mutated tongue, at his body in general. It'd become quite a complicated subject for him. 

Then Scott sighed deeply. "You're right." There was shame in his voice. "I _was_ being a..." 

"A buttface?" 

"Yes, that." 

Before Scott could dig himself in too deep a grave of guilt, Todd made a show of swinging the door open, dangling off the back of it with strong, sticky fingers. He wore a big smile on his face and a song in his voice to mask his feelings. "Yo! Where's my favorite fuzzbutt?" He resisted the urge to straighten, allowing himself to keep his natural crouch. _Kurt thinks you're good enough as you are, dumbo, so Summers can just go suck it,_ he reminded himself firmly as Scott's uncertain gaze travelled over him. 

Kurt disappeared in a puff of smoke, reappearing an instant later in front of Todd. He seized him in an enthusiastic hug, squeezing him breathless. 

"Whoa!" Todd exclaimed as he worked to hug him back. "You missed me that much, huh?" 

In answer, Kurt teleported the two of them to Todd's room, dropping onto the rumpled bed. There he remained on top of Todd, still and quiet. 

"Nightcreepster?" Todd asked, rubbing his back gently. "You okay?" 

"You heard all of that, didn't you?" Kurt replied. "It's okay. You don't have to pretend." 

There was no hiding anything from this guy. "How'd you know?" 

"Your face. That's not a real Todd smile. I'm sorry Scott is such a dummkopf." 

Kurt knew when Todd's smiles were real or fake. Could anyone else in the world make such a claim? Todd felt as though his heart were being squeezed by a vice. He buried his face in Kurt's chest, muffling his voice as it climbed in pitch. "Hey, yo, I’m fine! Don’t worry about me. Toads always bounce back. It's cool--" 

He wasn't fine. It wasn't cool. But Kurt was there, so he'd be okay. Composing himself, he pulled back to hold Kurt's blue-furred cheek in one webbed hand, smiling- genuinely, this time- up at him. "How'd I ever get so lucky to have you, huh? You make me so happy, 'Creepster." 

In answer, Kurt kissed his wrist, eyes golden as pale coins. His tail flickered reflexively when Todd reached to scritch behind a pointed ear, and he made a soft chittering noise that Todd answered with a low croak. Then they were kissing, slow and careful (Kurt's teeth had split Todd's lips open several times before, and Todd's blood was just slightly toxic), and the world went a little fuzzy around the edges. 

When, later, they lay together, they didn't immediately notice when the door creaked open a few centimeters. 

Kurt, on his back, held Todd's (stolen) DS over his head, tongue poked from the corner of his mouth in concentration as he lead a dachshund on a walk in Nintendogs. He was wearing one of Todd’s bracelets. Facing the opposite way, on his stomach, Todd curled round his sketchbook, idly scratching with his pencil. The fourth time Kurt's tail inadvertently smacked him, Todd grinned and took hold of it, tugging lightly without looking up from his work. Kurt flushed, then gasped sharply. 

"Really? Again?" Todd smirked, looking up at him. "Geez, you're insatia- oh." 

_Ah, heck._ Wanda was watching them from the doorway. Living with her was a little like living with a second Fluffernutter. Just as cranky, just as volatile, and just as prone to staring at the unsuspecting Brotherhood with huge blue eyes for unspecified lengths of time without an ounce of shame, as though she were a hostage studying her captors for weaknesses. "How long have you been standing there, Babycakes?" 

"Todd?" Kurt whispered. "Who _is_ she?" 

* * *

"Be fuckin' _grateful_ you don't have to go to school," Lance groaned, slumping into the living room and letting his backpack fall to the floor with a heavy thump. 

It was just the two of them that Friday night; Fred was working past closing time doing inventory, and Todd was probably off sucking face with the fuzzy guy. Logan had warned Lance to keep an eye on Wanda as he dared make an excursion to her old institute, trying to find out what in the hell was going on. 

Wanda, wearing Lance's sweatpants and curled on the sofa with a stack of catalogues, eyed him for a moment before returning to her reading. 

"I think that I would enjoy school." 

"No, you wouldn't. It's nothing like on TV. Nobody's hot and nobody bursts into song for no reason, except for the annoying theater kids, I guess." 

_Pietro was an annoying theater kid._ Lance's heart gave a twinge. He flopped onto the sofa next to Wanda and turned the TV on with his toe, flipping through channels until he found some Simpsons reruns to watch. 

He hadn't slept well in days, the sofa was soft, and Wanda smelled like Fred's minty shampoo. It wasn't long before Lance's eyelids were growing too heavy to focus on TV. He turned his head to look at Wanda instead, where she was pouring over pictures of airbrushed models in pastel-colored dresses with a frown on her face. 

"Need some help?" he asked with a yawn. She shrugged. 

That, too, was a Pietro gesture. A gesture that meant _I'm in a Mood, so leave me alone._

_Damn it; damn it;_ damn _it..._

Unbidden, tears pricked his eyes. Only for a split-second, and then he was violently fighting them down. 

"Wanda, can I just--" Lance, frazzled, _frustrated,_ rubbed at his temples. "Do you mind if I-" 

She fixed her steady gaze on him for a long heartbeat. "You want to touch me?" 

" _Please_ don't say it like that. But, yeah..." 

Wanda seared through him with those cobalt-fire eyes, so very _painfully_ similar to her brother's that Lance had to close his own eyes just to get away from it all. 

When she nodded in wary assent, he sagged with relief into her side, dropping his head to her shoulder and letting out a bone-deep sigh. The threat of tears subsided. 

She remained stiff for a long moment, and he just knew he was about to be thrown to the floor. Then she seemed to give. Just a little, sinking back into the sofa. "Okay," she said quietly, and pushed some of his hair out of her line of vision. "Okay." 

A moment later, she was curiously touching him in that innocent Wanda way, rubbing an index finger between his eyebrows where baby-fuzz grew. She travelled to his ear, tugging the lobe between thumb and forefinger. He smiled, nosing at her jaw like a dog. "You're weird." 

"I have been informed of this many times." 

The tension eased out of him by the bucketful. He snuggled her shoulder, squeezing her around the waist, whuffling at her feathery short and dual-toned hair. He was glad to be holding onto another person, glad for _something_ to be simple. 

He wondered, idly, if her lips were as soft as they looked. 

_That_ little passing thought had his eyes flying wide. _Damn, Alvers,_ he lectured himself furiously. _Not cool. If you're really that hard-up for it, go find a fucking girlfriend._

He was such a mess. He was so _stupid._ His mood blackened with boiling stormclouds of self-hate. 

Wanda was Looking at him. He hoped desperately that mind-reading wasn't among her endless list of insanely impressive skills. Then she turned a page of her catalogue and made a little noise of disgust. 

"I am _not_ wearing these." 

Lance looked down at glossy pages featuring women wearing bras. Sports bras; strappy bras; strap _less_ bras; weird little half-bras with itchy-looking lace. They came in all colors and patterns and boldly promised to _'Lift and separate!'_ To _'Support the girls!'_

Lance couldn't help but laugh, despite his tumultuous mood. "Don't you want one? I thought girls liked them." Why else would they wear them all the time if they didn't like them? 

"I only want to wear _your_ clothes. _These_ clothes are ridiculous." 

He snorted at this. She'd stolen so many of his clothes that he had barely anything left to wear. "You need pants that fit you, at least. We're all tired of seeing your skinny butt all the time." 

She pressed her thumb between his eyes and _zapped_ him. Not hard enough to do any damage, but definitely enough for him to feel an electric spark that made his nose itch wildly and set his teeth on edge. "Hey!" 

Undeterred, she moved to fold the page of her catalogue, bookmarking it for later. 

"And they say you don't have any control," he muttered darkly, glaring at her. The corner of her mouth quirked in a little smile. Damn Maximoffs. Pure trouble; every last one of them. He'd _missed_ this kind of trouble. 

. 

Pietro hadn't received the expected call from Logan that night, and when he sat alone in his hotel room and dialed the house himself, nobody answered. He didn't bother to leave a voicemail. 

This was some bullshit. They were too busy for him while _he,_ Pietro _Maximoff,_ had to stay in this lame hotel? No dancing, no parties, just waiting, alone, on a _Friday night_ for a damn phonecall that never came? No, thanks! He had people to do, things to see! Life was Too Damn Short. 

And yet he lingered, stung, staring at the silent phone. _Stood up by the old man._ What kinda crap... 

Not that he _liked_ the calls. Oh, no. They were terribly droll. _'How are you, Sonic? Are you eating? Are you doing your homework? Are you safe? Are you ready to come home? We miss you. I love you.'_ Blah, blah, blah. 

But, well. Logan had _said_ that he would call, and he wasn't exactly one not to follow through... 

A new thought, ugly and uncomfortable, tugged on Pietro. He fought it as long as possible, but it was just determined to slip through the cracks. _What if father..._

_No!_ Father had already dropped his precious little A-bomb on the house in the form of Wanda. Surely he was content to sit back and wait for her to destroy them all by herself. It was only a matter of time. Pietro was surprised it hadn't happened already, even without him around to trigger his twin. 

But what if father had run out of patience? What if he'd decided to come teach Logan a lesson in person before taking Wanda back? Todd had decent self-preservation instincts, but what if Fred or Lance tried to intervene; tried to be stupid and play the hero? 

Unease trickled down his spine in the form of a cold sweat. _(There's nothing I can do about it. Father does what father wants, and it's_ not my place _to...)_

( _They could be hurt. They could be dead._ ) 

Shit. Fuck, fuck, _fucking_ damn. Letting out a little wail of frustration, he stomped his foot, flinging his hands into the air in a mini temper-tantrum and resisting the urge to rip at his hair. ( _What am I supposed to _do_ about it?! I warned them!_ ) 

He told himself to sit still, to calm down, to shut up. But he'd never been good at following orders, not even his _own._

A heartbeat later he was sprinting up the long driveway of the Brotherhood house, using his housekey to unlock the front door with slightly unsteady hands. He told himself that he was ready for anything. As per usual, he was proven wrong immediately. 

The pair of long legs jutting over the arm of the sofa was a relief. It was just Lance, yet again lazily napping in front of the TV when he had a perfectly serviceable bed just upstairs. Whatever carnage Pietro had been picturing in his mind was just the product of an overactive imagination. 

But Lance wasn't alone. Lance was a cuddly guy- Pietro knew that. Hell; it was part of the reason they wouldn't work out. Lance wanted cuddles and affection and softness. In private that was fine, but in public it was just too much of a risk. 

Apparently, nobody had informed Wanda of this. 

His sister, whom Pietro had not seen since childhood, was tangled around Lance's prone form. They slept nested like dolls; his arms, her waist; her hair, his face. They looked peaceful as a painting, comfortable as long-time lovers. Lance held her like he'd once held Pietro; the way he _still_ held him in Pietro's dreams. 

_Wanda._ She was real, she was _here,_ she was right in front of him. Of course she was his age, despite having been frozen as a child in his memory. He wanted to stare at her, to memorize every tiny detail before she was taken away from him again, or before she woke and ripped him to pieces. His heart felt cracked along the seams as a thousand memories drowned him all at once, knocking the very strength from his bones. _This_ was what he'd been avoiding. 

Lance hurt to look at, too, though that was a pain he was more prepared to face. He'd long since grown adept at bracing his face and his heart against _that_ onslaught of feeling. It would go away, eventually. 

He stepped back, teeth grinding, and turned to make for the door. Remembered to straighten his back, square his shoulders, and let his eyes glaze over; frosty and untouchable as father. Obviously, he'd worried for nothing. The household was doing just fine without him. Lance had found someone willing to hold him right out in the open. Great for him! Pietro would let them all get back to the easy process of forgetting him. 

"Tro?" 

Oh, _that_ was Lance's slightly confused, sleep-heavy voice. Pietro's shoulders bunched to his ears, defensive and ready to spring, to attack, to keep the other boy at bay. "Just leaving!" he said, voice chipper and sing-song. He half-hoped Wanda would wake and raise hell. Maybe she'd pick him up like she did when they were kids, would dash his face into the wall. Maybe this time she'd succeed in splattering his brains everywhere. 

He heard shuffling as Lance untangled himself from Wanda, pulled her fingers from his dog tags, lifted her leg off his hip. 

There was something wrong with Pietro's hands.They shook so violently as they fumbled with the locks that he accidentally locked himself back in the house before finally wresting the door open. Before he could step into the balmy spring night, Lance caught his shoulders. 

Pietro twitched, jerked in Lance's grip, teeth bared in a warning snarl. "Let _go,_ Alvers." He could punch him. He _wanted_ to punch him. 

"No." Lance was stubborn as a boulder. "Calm down. What's wrong with you?" 

Pietro bent at the waist, trying to duck out of Lance's hold. Lance bent with him, his hands slipping from Pietro's shoulders to instead wind around his chest; a bear-hold learned from a childhood in an all-boy's boarding house. Lance knew how to wrestle; how to pin. He knew every dirty trick in the book. 

Half-crushed under his weight, Pietro squirmed, and Lance used this new leverage to hook an arm under Pietro's thighs. He stood and carried him outside like he would an unruly toddler, shutting the door between them and the girl. _Wanda always_ had _been a heavy sleeper..._

"Put me down Alvers or I swear to God-" Pietro spat, enraged and humiliated; all fury and twisting spine. 

Lance's arms doubled down. There'd be no budging him. "What is going on?!" 

"Fuck you! You have _no right_ to-" 

Lance dropped his arm from underneath Pietro's legs and instead backed him into the side of the house, keeping him caged there with his arms. "You've been gone for _ever._ I haven't seen you in _weeks._ And now you just show up and go apeshit? Please talk to me." 

It was the 'please' that stilled Pietro. He knew he was being ridiculous. The sooner he found some calm, the sooner Lance would let him go. It was just like acting. "I came by to see Logan." 

Lance sounded immensely relieved that their squabble had reached a plateau, though he didn't back away. "He went to Wanda's institute to ask some questions. He'll be gone for ages." 

So there _had_ been a valid reason for the missed phonecall, then. Maybe. Was it too paranoid to worry that there may still be some trap? 

It fell so quiet that both boys could hear the white-winged moths beating themselves senseless against the porch lightbulbs. It dawned on Pietro that his birthday was fast approaching. Soon he- and Wanda- would be seventeen. 

Lance shifted against his back, his arms loosening around Pietro's chest. If he used his patented Quicksilver speed now, he'd be able to slip away easily. Still, he lingered. 

"You got really upset just now," Lance observed cautiously. "Can we... can we talk about that?" 

Oh, Lance. Always the leader. Ever the den-mother to their tiny gang of fuckups. 

Pietro braced his palms on the wall and pushed experimentally. Lance moved with him, chest to back, arms enveloping his, hands pressing to the tops of his own. It was very warm. Every inhale was a hint of Lance's campfire scent all around him. 

"I don't want to." 

Lance hummed, considering. Pietro knew he should leave. But- 

"Did it bother you? That I was napping with Wanda?" 

Wow. So he _wasn't_ a complete dumbass 100% of the time. Give the boy a prize. 

Once more, Pietro injected a smirk into his voice. "Don't get the wrong idea, Alvers. It's just kinda skeevy, don't you think? The she-bitch is practically an infant after-" 

"Don't call her that."

_Ohhh._ Interesting. Pietro's nasty smirk intensified, vicious as broken glass. "Why not, Alvers? She's _my_ sister. I can call her what I-" 

"I said _don't._ " The ground beneath them gave the faintest of warning tremors. The moths at the porch light flew away. "You don't know her-" 

This made Pietro laugh. He dropped his weight against Lance and tilted his head back, resting it comfortably on Lance's shoulder. Catching onto the end of a lock of hair, he gave it a playful tug. 

"Couldn't have the twin you wanted, so you settled for the one who doesn't know to say 'no', huh? Just don't blame me when she sets your heart on fire- literally." 

This was easy. Pietro knew how to be despicable. It came so much more naturally to be hated than loved. This probably wasn't what Lance had had in mind when Pietro had warned him away from the Maximoff family. ( _Spoiler alert, you grunge bastard: we're all horrible. It's genetic._ ) 

"It isn't like that!" Lance was getting angry again. Was that a touch of guilt in his eyes? There was enough of a rumble through the earth now that Pietro almost lost his balance. Lance's fingers tightened painfully around Pietro's still-captive wrist. "If you'd just _listen_ \-- trust me, if she doesn't want to be touched, we all _know._ " 

And suddenly this wasn't fun anymore. Not at all. Pietro twisted around so sharply that Lance was forced to release him or risk wrenching his arm out of socket. Pietro shoved him hard in the chest, eyes burning in rage. "Why the _hell_ are you touching her if she doesn't _want_ you to?! What the fuck, Alvers?!" 

Wanda could protect herself from anything, right? It hadn't even occurred to Pietro before to be worried about her in this context. He'd only been being bratty for the sake of being bratty earlier. He hadn't thought Lance would ever _actually_ -!

"I'm not! I wouldn't!" Lance's jaw clenched, and he gave Pietro a sharp shake. "Would you listen to yourself? You know me better than that." 

He was right about that. Lance Alvers was a lot of things, but he was not the type to force himself on anyone. Pietro tried not to feel shamed by this wild leap to conclusions. 

( _Tabby warned you. She_ warned _you that he'd find someone nicer._ ) 

Lance was _pissed_ now. He saw it in his jaw, in the veins standing out in his neck and arms, in the way he was actively trembling to hold back the seismic waves. 

"Why are you _like_ this?" Lance asked, and Pietro was shocked to hear something like _tears_ in his voice. Was the Avalanche about to _cry?!_ "What did I _ever_ do to..." He took several deep breaths through his nose and closed his eyes tightly. 

Pietro gritted his teeth, dropping his gaze. "I'm..." it felt like swallowing acid to admit this. "I'm all over the place right now." It wasn't an apology. He didn't think he was capable of managing such a thing. 

Lance didn't stop him from pressing closer, from stepping blindly into that warmth until he was again touching his forehead to that shoulder... But he didn't hold him, either. Didn't comfort him. Didn't reassure him that all was forgiven. Instead, he stood stiff and cold. 

This, more than anything, startled Pietro into flinching back. He tilted his head up, just a little, offering his mouth in pure, thoughtless instinct. _Kiss me and tell me everything is going to be okay!_

Lance didn't do any of those things. His brown eyes were so _distant._ Panic clawed its way up Pietro's chest. 

Oh, _fuck._ What had he _lost?!_

"Lancelot..." 

"I'm tired, Tro." Lance pushed Pietro away, gentle but firm, and reached for the door. "I'm- I can't... I'm dealing with a _lot_ right now, so. I'm going to bed. Are you staying or going?" 

Pietro was frozen. Everything inside him had crystalized, and stalagmites were piercing his heart, growing fractal spines inside his veins. Lance looked at him for a few solid seconds before sighing. 

"Come home if you ever figure your shit out, Tro. It sucks without you." 

He softly closed the door between them. Pietro remained still long after the sound of his footsteps had faded away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big big thank you to [[Nemhaine42](http://nemhaine42.tumblr.com)] for talking me through the last segment of this chapter. It almost got scrapped until she helped me fix it.
> 
> Kodd playing Nintendogs was inspired by [[this fanart.](http://mugsandpugs1.tumblr.com/post/172255079722/farcito-terrible-teens-terrorise-local-malt)]


	19. Grunge Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little rocky.

It took Pietro Maximoff three hours in Lance Alvers' company to know that the boy was soft. 

It took Pietro Maximoff five days of living with Lance Alvers to know the boy had a thing for him. 

But it took Pietro Maximoff only one kiss in a mud-splattered Jeep to know that he would someday break this soft boy's heart.

And okay, maybe that had once seemed like an acceptable inevitability, in a far-off sort of way. The boy had abs and a pretty mouth, and Pietro was bored. They hadn't even been _friends_ , not at first. Why should it have bothered him if the idiot mistook a backseat fumble for love?

Except. 

Except for the way that Pietro, Fred, Todd, and Rogue all retreated to Lance's room, drawn by pounding hearts and insomnia night after night, because sleeping in an unfamiliar place, in a new city was too much to face alone. They were scared and young, and Lance made the world less scary without even trying. (Except that he _did_ try; he tried all the time. Pietro just hadn't seen that at first.) 

Because Lance talked a big game and swaggered like the cockiest bastard on the planet, but he was still there to punch out anyone who dare lay a hand on Todd or made Fred feel unlovable or called Pietro stinging little words that began with 'F'. 

Because when Tabby had shattered, sobbing and screaming and chucking little bombs into the gully behind their house, Lance had flung his arms around her shoulders and held on tight despite her flailing, despite the flames and explosions rocking the world all around until she'd broke down crying into his shoulder, and Lance's eyes had been so _soft,_ so understanding that it made a little door in Pietro's chest open and all sorts of hidden and ugly things creep to the surface. 

Because he kept obsessive tracks of their funds, their food, their dwindling first aid kit. Because he'd worked dozens of shady little under-the-table jobs for gas money, but he never once refused Pietro an extra sandwich, a drive to nowhere for nothing. 

Because he barely knew the Brotherhood, and yet he gave them his entire self again and again and never once looked back. 

And okay, maybe, _maybe_ Pietro had loved Lance Alvers before he even knew it. Trapped in the space between breaths, in the little electrical hums of a razor on stubble and sloppy morning kisses and a hand that always found his in darkness. 

Pietro didn't know how to be loved. It wasn't something he was terribly familiar with. So he'd fought it, and he'd rejected it, and he'd tangled it all up in a knot before smearing it through mud, and now he could no longer conceivably be loved by anyone anymore. 

* * *

Lance woke before sunrise, the wristwatch he'd swiped from a long-ago foster brother beeping him into consciousness. 

As usual upon waking, his head ached so fiercely that his vision ran bleary. When he stretched and yawned, his room rumbled. Not an angry quake; more a brief hiccup that all inhabitants of the house now slept through without effort. 

He rolled out of bed, grateful to have his room back from Wanda, and made it all the way to the door (snatching up a towel from the monumental laundry pile as he went) before reluctantly climbing to his feet. 

He didn't bother to turn the bathroom lights on while he showered, and maybe dozed a little with his face pressed to the cool tile wall, but he ran Fred's brush half-heartedly through his hair before bunching the tangled mess out of his face with one of Rogue's big clips. Still damp, he shook water off like a dog, sniffed some clothes from the laundry pile for wearability ("Clean enough!") and trudged, yawning, to the kitchen. 

Stella, the Brotherhood's coffee-maker, was full to the brim of fresh, bitter dark roast, fragrant and steaming. 

"Hey, baby," he greeted her as he poured a hasty bowl of cereal. He held the lip of the pot to his bowl, about to douse his Lucky Charms with hot caffeinated goodness. Logan's growly voice just behind him made him jump. 

"I _know_ you're not actually gonna do that." 

Lance guiltily put the coffeepot down and reached instead for the milk. "Wasn't doing anything." 

"Yeah, right." Logan snorted and bumped hips with him as he grabbed and peeled a banana from the fruit basket, then forced it into Lance's hand. 

"Have a fruit. I hear they're healthy or something." 

Lance groaned in mock disgust, but couldn't quite contain his smirk as he obligingly ate his breakfast. Sometimes he and Logan were so similar it was eerie. "You're up early." 

"I was exercising." 

Before the damn sun came out? Before _coffee_? Maybe not quite so similar, then. 

He munched his breakfast, dripping milk onto the counter, and watched Logan futz around the kitchen for a while. When Logan caught him staring, he cocked his grizzled head. "Something on your mind?" 

There was, actually. There had been for days, but Lance had been putting it off, too afraid of likely rejection. He doubted he'd get a better opportunity. "Yeah, um. I wanted to ask if you could come to Manhattan with us for the interview. I know Hank's gonna be there, but..." He fidgeted. Braced himself. He was already in the hole this deep. Might as well just let go and damn the consequences. "But I want _you_ there. I'm nervous." 

Logan studied him with those animal eyes for a heart-wracking moment of silence before replying, "I don't feel comfortable leaving Wanda alone for two days." 

Oh. Of course. Lance should have expected that. It was a perfectly reasonable excuse. "Right; I got it-" 

"- But I'll be there for the interview part, okay? I'll _be_ there." Logan's gaze did not waver. His eyes did not leave Lance's. He meant what he said. 

"Y-you don't _have_ to--" Lance insisted, feeling his face heat. Already he was cursing himself for being such an inconvenience. He wasn't some baby incapable of doing things on this own! "I mean really, why would you even want to-" 

"Because, Rocky," Logan interrupted. He braced his hands on the kitchen sink and rolled his shoulders, stretching until every joint in his back popped. "You're my son." 

Lance's argument died in his throat. He almost forgot that he was holding food until milk began pouring from the bowl and onto the floor. Swearing, he quickly set it back down. "Yeah, dad." 

Todd, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed, stumbled into the kitchen. His untied shoes were on the wrong feet and his t-shirt was on inside-out. He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a little croak. 

"Oh, bub." Logan went to him. Todd slumped into his barrel chest and was snoring in seconds. 

Lance frowned. "What's _he_ doing up?" 

Fred, smelling of sunblock, followed after Todd; suddenly the quiet, pre-dawn kitchen was very full and loud with personality. Logan offered Todd to him, so Fred tucked his limp body over one arm and turned to raid the fridge, pulling free a cloth bag full to bursting of food and water. 

"Where do you think you're going?" Lance demanded. "It's four in the damn morning! Go back to bed!" What, was Wanda gonna wake up too? Was this what they did on normal Saturdays while Lance was sleeping in like a sane person? 

Fred planted his free hand on his hip, rolling his eyes at Lance like he was the one being obtuse. "Well, we're goin' with you, of course." The "dummy" was unsaid, but implied. 

Lance blinked, shooting a frown Logan's way. "No they aren't! Logan, tell them. Is that even allowed?" 

"Shhh _hhh_." Todd fumbled for Lance's face, nearly poking him in the eye before he managed to clap a webbed hand over his mouth. "So loud. Tryin' to sleep here." 

Lance shook the hand off; it dangled limply over Fred's arm as the youngest Brotherhood boy carried him and the bag of food to the Jeep. Lance looked beseechingly at Logan, who held Lance's travel-thermos, full to the brim of coffee, out to him. 

"Be careful out there today," he said gruffly. "Wear the safety equipment they give you or else. I'll be down to check on you after Sparkles wakes up." 

At a loss for anything else to do, Lance nodded numbly. There weren't really any other words to be said. They stepped out into the lightening darkness of the outside world and clambered into the Jeep. 

Fred was already in his usual place in the backseat, an arm around the sleeping Todd. Lance regarded the empty passenger seat for a moment, feeling a pang of loss. That was where Pietro belonged... 

_Don't think about him, you ass. Be grateful for what you have._

He _was_ grateful. Almost chokingly so. After the incident following the school play, he didn't much like being around strange adults alone. Today was almost certainly going to be full of personal questions and knowing stares from a world of people who saw him only as trash. Dangerous trash. 

He turned in his seat, looking at the two in the back. Meeting eyes with Fred. "You guys know how I... the three of us are..." 

The last time he'd said the words ' _I love you_ ' had been one of the worst days of his life, but he had to try. 

Fred's gray-blue eyes softened in understanding, and he leaned forward to squeeze Lance's shoulder, gentle as could be. "We know, Lance. Us, too." 

It was a quiet drive through empty, dark streets. The sun had only begun to rise for Lance to consult his map with when they reached the construction site, where small pup-tents were already set up. Todd, who'd been surreptitiously stealing sips from Lance's travel thermos, was looking quite perky as a man in an orange vest directed them to a parking space and then checked his drivers' license for ID. 

"You the mutie who blew up your school?" 

"He didn't blow it up," Fred interjected. The _school_ itself had been completely fine. It'd just been the parking lot and surrounding land features that had been a little... inconvenienced. 

The site manager did not look convinced. "If you kids pull any shit today, I'm licensed to do _whatever I need to_ for self defense," he warned. "Your judge told me." 

He brought a hand to his hip, meaning clear. Lance swallowed, throat suddenly dry. The fighting spirit he'd always cultivated, the one that resisted all authority and bullies, had been tempered somewhat after that cop had... Had... 

He didn't want to die. 

Todd leaned over Lance's shoulder, bendy arms looping loosely around his neck as he focused intense yellow eyes on the man's face. "Yo, you should know we're all wearin' body-cams and wires and shit. You try anythin' and it's goin' straight to our lawyer." 

The man and Todd had a brief stare-down. Todd must have flashed his red eyes because the man gasped and took an involuntary step back, his hand again flying to his hip. 

Lance protectively shoved Todd into Fred's chest, heart pounding, but then they were being waved past marker-strips to a tent to sign in, collect vests and helmets of their own, and be debriefed with half a dozen others on the community service they were required to do. 

Mainly the work seemed to involve lifting all of the numerous heavy stones that littered a two-acre plot of land into wheelbarrows and taking them to a truck, where they could be relocated. Once the land was smooth, it could be used for construction. 

"Are you really wearing a body-cam?" Lance asked Todd under his breath. 

"No. Stick close to Freddie. I don't like the way those dudes are watchin' us." 

After that, they were too busy for much talking. 

Lance had worked construction before; agreeing to any and all projects that didn't ask for his age or criminal record, and paid completely in cash. He'd never had to do it as a punishment, and his co-workers had never before avoided him like he was infected with the plague, either. 

At least he had Todd to crack smarmy jokes and fill his vest pockets with fist-sized hunks of jagged slate, and Fred to tuck boulders the size of baby elephants under his arms and cart them away easily. 

"Drink." Fred pushed a one-gallon jug of water into Lance's hands after most of the first hour had passed. "It's easy to get dehydrated." 

Lance didn't feel thirsty, but he obliged, then nearly choked as an unfashionable, clunky, and terribly familiar station wagon rattled to a halt just outside the wooden markers, parking beside the Jeep. "Hank? _Summers?!_ " 

Todd gave a little croak. "Huh! Grey. Pryde, too. And Guthry! And--" 

Kurt, wearing his human disguise, grinned and waved at them, arms looped around Kitty and Sam's waists as Scott spoke to the site manager. 

More and more X-Men were piling from the station wagon, filling up the lot with positivity and can-do attitudes. Lance forgot his work entirely and just stared at them all. 

"Aw man," Fred sighed. "I didn't bring enough sandwiches for everyone." 

"What are they _doing_?!" Lance demanded. 

The site manager, looking exceptionally put out now, threw his hands up in frustration. A moment later the herd of mutants loped towards them. 

"Hallo!" Kurt called excitedly, jogging their way, and Todd hopped out to meet him halfway, beaming. 

Scott folded his arms and looked Lance up and down. "You could have told us this thing started earlier," he chastised. "I don't like being late." 

Lance opened and closed his mouth, seeming lost for words. Then-- "You know I'm being punished by the hour, right? Getting _this_ job done faster will just mean they have to find more work for me." 

"So?" 

Lance was again struck speechless. Kitty reached to clasp a hand on his shoulder. "What he means is, you're one of us now. X-Men don't let other X-Men be in danger alone," she explained kindly, then moved to twist her hair into a bun, clapping her yellow hard-hat on top of it. 

Lance started to protest that he wasn't an X-Men, thanks very much, but Todd gave him a rough shove in the side. "Zip it and say thank you," the toad muttered, jerking his chin in the direction of the site manager. The man was glowering at them all, a cell-phone to his ear, pointedly ignoring Hank's leaning serenely against the side of the station wagon to stare him down.

The X-Men seemed prepared to work. Bobby, complaining of the heat, blew frosty breaths on the backs of peoples necks between trips to the trucks. Jamie's duplicates strolled the perimeter of the markers, stones in every pocket. But it was Jean who alerted Lance to a new presence.

"Well, it's about time," she chided, hands on her hips. 

Lance straightened, back aching, sweat making his shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin, and stiffened to see Pietro watching him quietly from beside his wheelbarrow. The boy was dressed to work in protectively thick, yet lightweight clothes and enormous mirrored sunglasses. He carried with him two paper cups of coffee, each bearing the logo of the high-end café he preferred to steal from. 

"I didn't know there'd be so many of you here," he explained to Jean. "I thought it'd just be Lance." 

"Wouldn't that just encourage you to get here faster?" she asked, arching a red brow even as she folded her arms. She was wearing a funny wide-brimmed hat with cloth on the back of it to protect her fair skin from the sun. 

"Lay off, Red," Lance mumbled, unable to tear his eyes from the boy, wondering why he'd bothered to show up. Pietro's expression was impossible to read under those sunglasses taking up half his face, and his voice gave nothing away. 

"Stay out of my head," Pietro snapped after a moment's awkward silence. Jean huffed irritably as she returned to work. 

"Gladly. It's a disaster in there." She turned away from them both to resume her work, and almost reluctantly, Pietro looked back at Lance. 

"Hi," the Avalanche greeted, and internally cringed at how weird his voice sounded. _Please be normal._

He hoped Jean wasn't close enough anymore to pick up that thought. 

"Hey, Lancelot." Pietro's voice softened a fraction, and Lance flashed back to their recent encounter outside the front door, Pietro pressing close enough to kiss, Lance's heart fracturing a tiny fault line along the seam. 

Lance nodded towards the coffee. "One of those for me?" 

"Yep. Tasteless black bean-water, just like you like it." 

Lance grinned as the cup was handed over. Pietro preferred so many sugars and flavorings in his decaf that it was a little like trying to swallow a gingerbread house whole. "I gotta get back to work. Are you sticking around?" 

He expected a flippant retort; for Pietro to dodge the question, to speed off as soon as possible. Extra work was never Pietro's preference. Except-- 

"Yeah, I am. And I'll be on time next Saturday, too." 

"Picking apricots?" 

"If that's what you're doing, then yes." 

"Oh." Lance tried to quash the startled little happiness cropping within him at the thought. He had an entire acre of people here to help him; people that had no obligation to be there. It was unfair to them to be this exceptionally happy for Pietro showing up late with coffee. Yet the little secret thrill rising in his gut at the mere promise of future encounters could not be denied. "Okay."

"Alvers!" Scott barked from half a yard away. "You gonna work or are you just gonna chat?" 

Lance cheerily flipped him off, exchanging a conspiratorial smirk with Pietro. Then, carrying their coffees with them, the two resumed their work. Somehow, it now felt less strenuous; the morning breeze cooler. 

As promised, Logan swung by to visit just as they were finishing up. Minors could only work four and half hours consecutively and as Scott, Jean, and Hank were the only workers present who _weren't_ minors, they were signing out just before ten. 

"I am like, _so_ disgusting right now," Kitty complained, pinching the neck of her t-shirt to fan air onto her face. They were all sweaty and grubby. Lance craved another shower and a ten-year nap. But-- 

"Ice cream? My treat," Hank offered, smiling gently, and the younger mutants quickly forgot their woes. The site manager shot them a disapproving glare, which they all ignored as they returned their hard-hats and vests. 

They made plans to meet at a local ice cream parlor and then divided into their vehicles: Hank's station wagon, Logan's motorcycle (Rogue insisted on riding pillion, clearly tired of the car of rowdy X-Men), and Lance's Jeep. 

Lance looked around for Pietro, half expecting him to be gone as usual, and was surprised when a moment later he vaulted over the Jeep's door, sprawling casually in the passengers' seat. 

"Tro!" Todd squawked from the backseat, and lunged forward, wrapping his arms around both the headrest and Pietro's neck in a strangling hug. Pietro choked and flailed for air. 

"Todd," Lance chided automatically, but it was hard to be mad at the kid; he was smiling enormously. 

"Sorry, yo! I just haven't seen you in forever! You never _talk_ to us anymore!" 

"I call every night," Pietro argued when he could again breathe. He fixed his sunglasses from where they'd been knocked askew. 

"Yeah, for like, two seconds," Todd grumbled. Now that the initial joy had faded, there was some hurt plainly visible in his eyes. "What; we aren't cool enough for you anymore?" 

Part of Lance-- the majority of Lance-- wanted to interject. To stop this line of questioning before it scared Pietro away. But a little stabbing pang in his chest forced him remain quiet, to hear Pietro out. _Watch him squirm._

Oh, and he did squirm under the gaze of the three boys he lived with. He tilted his head as though he wanted to beseech Lance for help, then quickly dropped his eyes, remembering. "Don't be dumb," he snapped. 

Now Fred leaned forward, bracing an elbow on the back of Lance's seat, addressing Pietro calmly. "Are we, you think? Dumb?" 

There was a quality to his voice, something Lance hadn't heard directed at one of them since the Brotherhood was new. He was angry. He was trying to repress it. When _Fred_ was angry, people tended to take notice. Pietro blanched. 

"Freddie-bear..." _Don't scare him away. Please. He'll never stay if you..._ But could Lance blame them, really? "We should go; we're holding up the line." He automatically rested a hand on the back of Pietro's headrest as he backed from the dusty parking space, twisting to look over his shoulder, feeling Pietro's hair tickle his wrist. To his surprise, though, Pietro didn't take the easy excuse to clam up or change the subject. 

"I don't think you're dumb," he told the two in the backseat, quiet but sincere. "I think you're... amazing." 

Todd blinked. Cocked his head. "Tro--" 

Pietro turned to face Lance, nudging him in the arm. "Get a move on, Avalanche," he said. "Look; the old man's already leaving us behind." 

Lance silently did as directed, following the fluttering dual-tones of Rogue's hair off the dirt path and onto a road. Pietro pulled out a sleeve of cassette-tapes from under his seat and flickered through the stack until he found a mix tape he could tolerate, stuffing it into the player. Soon all was guitar music and subvocal growling. The lack of chatter on the drive to the parlor was significantly more awkward in nature than it had been early that morning. 

As they parked before the candy-striped pagoda, Pietro stopped the music with a prod of his thumb and turned once more to face the two in the back. "What's it like?" he asked. "Being with Wanda, I mean." 

He said her name like he might say any other; like the name of a stranger on a bus, or a vague acquaintance. He sounded nothing like he had on that night on the porch with the white moths beating themselves against the allure of the light. 

The two younger mutants exchanged a glance. "It's alright," Fred ventured cautiously. "We like Wanda." 

"More than you like me?" Pietro asked, the words tripping over each other as they spilled from his lips. He blanched and quickly tried to avert the question with a laugh, making it into a joke. None of them were fooled. 

"Don't be such a dumbass," Todd scoffed, balling up a paper straw wrapper from the floorboards and tossing it at Pietro's head. "You're ours, Puck Everlasting. More family can't replace other family."

Pietro's face didn't give much away after that as they stepped into the cool air-conditioning blast of the parlor, where shiny clean countertops and a dozen tiny tables scattered before the serving area. Already the X-Men were lined up, placing their orders as a bemused-looking teenager in red suspenders struggled to fill all of them in a timely manner. 

Lance wouldn't have said he was especially enthused by sweets, but this was more a social occasion anyway. He watched Jamie and Sam accept their little paper cups and seat themselves sat a table, and found that he couldn't stop himself from sneaking peeks of Pietro now that he'd started. 

"You should say somethin' to the group, bub," Logan murmured in Lance's ear, under the pretense of leaning close to squint at the menu. 

Lance knew Logan was right, but he had no such speech prepared. This hadn't been the day he'd woken up expecting. He'd expected to be alone; exhausted; miserable. And he _was_ physically exhausted and sore, as well as emotionlly drained, but he was also... Hopeful. 

He mentally tumbled through all the things he could possibly say as he watched Todd assemble some horrorshow of bubblegum ice cream studded with every sour candy known to man, then procured his own plain peanuts and vanilla. (Realizing too late that Scott had ordered the exact same thing made him grumble.) 

He held the cup and spoon in hand as he awkwardly shuffled over to the cluster of tiny tables where the X-Men sat, shifting his weight from foot to foot until they fell silent and looked his way. Kitty and Kurt both gave him encouraging smiles. 

"What's up, Lance?" Evan asked. 

How strange life had become, to have these people smiling at him, calling him by his first name. Claiming him as theirs. How surreal the world was. 

"Hey, guys." _Damn._ This wasn't going to be easy. He'd sort of hoped the words would just come to him. He closed his eyes and just forced it out. "Thanks." 

The world did not explode. 

They were still smiling at him when he dared peek an eye open, so he continued on: "It means a lot to me that you all showed up. Today would have really sucked without you." 

Jubilee, who sat closest to where he stood, reached and took his free hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. 

Lance felt a knot form in his throat at the gesture. If he said anything more, they might mistakenly think he was _emotional_ or something. He squeezed Jubilee's hand back before releasing her, gave the group a dumb little salute, and swaggered off to the tiny booth the Brotherhood and Logan had claimed. 

As he walked, Hank reached and squeezed his forearm, the same as Jubilee had done with his hand. He appreciated it, and gave Hank a small smile, but wasn't sure how much more wholesome support he could take. It was an actual, physical relief to hear Todd swearing softly at the comfort of his own table; of what he _knew._

Pietro, sunglasses now pushed back to the top of his head, primly picked at a fancy banana split, though Lance knew he was dying to just wolf the whole thing down. Lance took the only seat available-- the one crammed between him and Fred-- and shot him an apologetic glance when the lack of space about forced their shoulders together. 

"Does Wanda like ice cream?" Todd asked, and everyone at their little table looked at Pietro. 

"Uh--" Pietro stuttered, and Lance had the sinking feeling that he didn't know. Instinctively, Lance hooked his ankle around Pietro's for comfort before remembering that it might not be allowed anymore. Too late to pull away now, though. 

"Yeah. She does. Have you _met_ her? She'd eat an entire bowl of powdered sugar if you let her." 

"Brown sugar," Fred corrected, and then added, "well, I stopped her from _finishing_ it! Jeez!" when everyone looked at him. 

Logan reached across the tiny table-- Todd had to scrunch to the side to give him room-- and passed Pietro a few crumpled dollars. "You should go pick somethin' out for her," he advised. "To go." 

Pietro blinked at the money and, much to Lance's surprise, reached under the table, fumbling until Lance took his hand. When Logan gave them a _look,_ Lance chose to stare instead at the remains of his melting ice cream and peanuts. _No, dad. I_ don't _know what I'm doing._

After a moment, Pietro stood with his typical dancer's grace and made for the counter, and Lance's hand missed the contact. The four of them watched Pietro speak to the teen behind the counter, who mixed flavors and toppings into a to-go cup. 

"I miss him," Todd sighed. 

"Yeah," Fred agreed. 

"He'll come home when he's ready," was Logan's gruff response. "I'm beginnin' to think it's gonna be sooner than later." 

At the X-Men tables, the boys were catching their second wind and becoming raucous. Todd grinned when he saw Kurt attempting to steal Scott's ice cream, which quickly turned into an impromptu wrestling match. Something must have diverted his attention, though, because he turned a suspicious look onto their guardian a moment later. 

"What's goin' on with you and science-dad, huh?" he asked, golden eyes steely, sneaking his spoon forward to steal a bite from Pietro's dish. "You two have been avoiding eyes all day. Did you break up too, or somethin'?" 

Logan swatted Todd's hand with the back of his spoon. "Stop that. I have no idea what you're talkin' about, frogger." 

He didn't, Lance noticed, meet anyone's eyes as he said this, though. And now that Todd had drawn his attention to it, Hank _was_ sitting rather stiffly. 

"Oh," Pietro said, returning to their table with a to-go cup encased in its little plastic lid. "Yeah, I've been meaning to ask you about that. What _was_ that I saw you two doing by his car a while back, huh?" He wore a wicked grin, as though he already very well knew the answer to his question. Much to Lance's surprise, Logan _reddened._

"Logan and _Hank?!_ " Fred's blonde eyebrows shot up high on his forehead. "Huh. Who would'a thought?" 

"There _is_ no 'Logan an' Hank', so you can just pipe down!" Logan hissed between bared teeth, shooting an anxious glance at Hank's back as though fearing he might overhear. 

"Oh," Todd realized. " _Oh_ , he turned you down, huh? Sorry, pops. I really thought he liked you back." 

Logan did not deny it. Fred was looking about as surprised as Lance felt. Now that they'd mentioned it, he had noticed the two were rather close, but hadn't thought much on it; too focused on his own problems. It was sometimes hard to think of Logan as someone with his own life outside of them; he just was _there_ one day and had never left.

"Are we s'posed to egg his car?" Fred asked seriously. "We egged Kitty's window when she-- _Ow_!" Pietro had kicked him sharply in the shin. "Tro, you make a hornet look cuddly." 

Logan glared pointedly around the table. "I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that," he grumbled. His four charges smiled angelically at him and he snorted, fighting back a smile of his own. "You damn punks." 

* * *

Wanda was seated innocently on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankles, a practiced blank look on her face when the boys returned home. On her lap was a book stolen from Lance's room, and she pretended it held all her focus as they filed into the house. 

"Babycakes!" Todd crowed pleasantly, flinging himself on the sofa beside her, careful not to touch her as he did so. "Your lil bro got you a present-- I hope you like rocky road. Kosher marshmallows and everythin'!" 

"It was dripping all over the backseat," Lance complained. "Eat it now or stick it in the freezer." 

Wanda took the cold cup from Todd's webbed hand, examining it curiously. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had ice cream. "Pietro chose this for me?" 

The idea didn't disgust or horrify her. She was surprised to find that she was instead warmed by the thought. She smiled at Todd. "When we were small, sometimes we would make ice cream together. We would fill a large coffee can with the ingredients and rock salt, and roll it back and forth across our porch until it froze." 

"Really?" Todd asked, settling back on the couch. "In Poland?" 

"Yes. We used cherries from our trees to flavor it." Thinking of their childhood together used to enrage her, or just plain sadden her. She couldn't deny a certain meloncholy, but just then she didn't feel like torching anything, or sulking off to her room to until her mood passed. Prising the lid off her food, she stuck a finger in the melting gloop and pulled some out to eat. 

Todd was frowning, his wide, fly-catching mouth turned down as he regarded her. She wondered if she was about to be scolded for not utelizing a spoon, but instead Todd took her free hand and held it to the light. 

"Are you wearin' nail-polish?" he asked, examining her black-painted fingernails, buffed and shaped smooth. 

She glared at him warningly, and he quickly released her, realizing too late that he hadn't asked before touching her. "Sorry. But for real, where did you get-- makeup, too?" 

Drat. She'd thought she'd washed all that stuff off. When the pretty girl working at Creations had said 'waterproof', she really meant it. 

Lance, overhearing their conversation from the kitchen, frowned and looked into the room, running his eyes over Wanda. "I don't remember you ordering those clothes from the catalogues," he remarked, eyeing her bare midriff. "Did you get your _naval pierced_?" 

"Her ears, too," Todd leaned in close, examining first Wanda's left ear, and then her right. "That's a lot of metal, yo." 

Wanda pulled her legs to her chest and glowered at both boys, wondering if she'd have to hex them and make a speedy retreat to her room until they hopefully forgot that the conversation had ever happened. 

"Babycakes," Todd said slowly. "What did you do?" 

Petulantly, Wanda scooped a dripping mound of ice cream from her cup and shoved it in her mouth so she would not have to answer. 

"Wanda," Lance sighed, sounding tired. "We're dumb but we're not _that_ dumb. Did you go somewhere?" 

"The girl at Creations said boys would never notice what I wore," she finally muttered, annoyed that she'd been mislead. She'd been counting on it. 

"Creations? As in, that girly store at the _mall_?!" Todd looked impressed. Lance looked horrified. The questions pelted her from all directions. 

"How did you get to the _mall_?!" 

"Where did you get money?" 

"Did anyone see you?" 

"Did you... Did you hurt anyone?" 

"Holy shit, yo," Todd paled as realization dawned. "Logan's gonna be pissed."

"He'll never go to Manhattan with us now," Lance breathed.

Wanda had had enough. "So just do not tell him!" she barked. She watched television! Teenagers snuck out of the house and lied to their parents about it all the time! "Not everyone always needs to know my business!" 

"No," Logan's voice from the hallway reached them, and the three teenagers froze in place. He was holding an empty paper envelope. "But sometimes I do need to know things, such as why our emergency money is gone. Care to explain?"


	20. Bishop Pair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pietro tries to be nice and it's weird for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for the q-slur being positively reclaimed. Also warning for briefly referenced past self harm.

Waiting was not one of Pietro's favorite activities.

In fact, if he were to rank all possible activities, waiting would fall somewhere below waterboarding and having a car battery hooked up to his nipples in 'preferred forms of torture.' At least _interesting_ things hypothetically happened to him in those other scenarios! 

But he waited just the same, seated on a little padded chair just inside the library, his leg bouncing fast enough to make his jeans smoke from friction-burn. At 8:45 precisely, Fred's voice projected over the intercom and filled the entire tile-floored building: 

"The library will be closing in fifteen minutes... For _ever!_ Mua-ha-haaaa... No, just kidding. It opens tomorrow at ten, folks. Please make your final check-outs soonishly. Night, y'all." 

Pietro couldn't help but grin, even as he rolled his eyes. What a _dork_. 

Unable to remain seated, he paced around the near-empty library, giving people who looked as though they'd like to linger dirty looks until they gathered their belongings and friends and made for the exit. 

"Pietro!" 

The teenager turned and looked down to see Marianne, the pink-haired librarian, smiling up at him. She was one of those humans who's age was hard to determine. She could have been anywhere from forty to sixty for all Pietro knew. 

"Hey," he greeted, reminding himself for the umpteenth time that this place was Fred's haven and that he had to Be Nice. 

"You've gotten taller," she remarked, beaming up at him from her own squat, wide-legged stance. 

Had he? It was possible. He'd had to tailor some of his old clothes a few months ago, but he'd also reluctantly given up on his dream of ever cracking six feet. He'd gotten his mother's fine bones, not his father's imposing brawn. 

"I've been eating good," he explained. 

"Yes! I'm very pleased to hear about Logan becoming a fixture your lives. If you don't mind my saying, all four of you boys seem to be doing so much better." 

"Not that much better," he muttered. "Have you seen the news?" 

She frowned. He noticed she had some lipstick on her teeth, and stomped on the urge to point it out to her. _Be fuckin' Nice!_

"Do you mean Lance?" she asked, and gave his arm an empathetic squeeze. He looked at her hand until she removed it. "I did. Poor boy... It's just awful what some kids have to go through, isn't it?" 

Pietro shrugged. He never really knew how to react when humans said things in support of the mutant cause. If the ambiguity was weird to him, it must have been downright alien to his father. 

"Will I see you on TV? Fred told me about the interview." 

Pietro shook his head. Oh, no way in hell was he touching that. Father was going to be pissed enough as it was-- _his_ handpicked mutants groveling for human approval on live television?! It'd be a _disaster_ if Pietro's face was shown on air, too. "Fred and I are sitting that one out." 

Fred, pushing an empty cart he'd no doubt been re-shelving books from, approached. He looked surprised to see who had come for him. "Tro?" 

Pietro gave him a smile. "Hey, big guy. I borrowed the Jeep-- wondered if I could give you a ride home?" 

Was it technically borrowing if he had the key to it? He'd left a note in the driveway when he'd taken it-- the 'note' being a scrap of paper weighted down by a rock that read only, "PM." 

"Isn't that nice, Freddie?" Marianne beamed. 

"Aw!" Fred grinned toothily. "I'm so glad. Let me just finish up here." 

Wishing to avoid more conversation, Pietro made for the doors. "I'll wait out front." 

By the doors, a kneeling maintenance worker was restocking the vending machines. Pietro helped himself to a couple of snacks. There was a time when he would have taken the money, too, but he wasn't in the mood for a lecture from Logan if he sniffed out the cash on him, or whatever. 

He was munching potato chips by the time Fred lumbered out to meet him. "I'm so happy to see you." 

He _looked_ happy. It was so easy to please Fred... It almost made Pietro feel guilty that he didn't try to do so more often. He held the bag out. "Potato chip?" 

Fred reached for one, then frowned suspiciously. "Did you steal those?" 

"So what, man? They're just chips." There was no need for Freddie to go all high and mighty about it! It wasn't so long ago when Pietro's skills at theft kept them all from starving, the ungrateful little... 

"Tro, I _work_ here." Fred didn't often look impatient with anyone, no matter how they tested him. "I _like_ working here. Please don't--" 

"Freddie!" a child's voice called, and the duo turned to see a little girl sat astride her father's shoulders waving frantically at the librarian's assistant. Fred's unhappy expression morphed into a smile. Pietro took advantage of the momentary distraction to race to the parking garage a block away, hide all the stolen snacks in the Jeep's backseat, and return before anyone noticed. 

"Well hey there, Rosie!" Fred greeted. "And papa-Rosie! You two are out late!" 

"It's _Friday,_ " said Rosie, as though that explained everything. "You're allowed to be out late on Fridays." 

"Rosie's your biggest fan," said her father, aiming a conspiratorial grin at Fred. "She talks about your reading circles all the time. Did you know she and her little sister never much liked reading before you started making books fun?" 

The two spoke to Fred without an ounce of fear, though he was taller than the both of them put together; despite his being more than capable of lifting them both in one meaty hand. Since when had humans started treating Fred like he was normal? Couldn't they tell he was a mutant? Was it possible they knew and just didn't care? 

"My brother 'n I had better get home. Y'all have a good night now," Fred smiled warmly at the duo, and patted Rosie's father gently on the shoulder before turning back to Pietro. 

"There. What were we talking about again?" Fred asked, long legs working to catch up with Pietro's head start to the parking garage. 

"It doesn't matter. Tell me about you!" Pietro tried to inject cheer into his voice. "What's going on on Planet Fred?" 

Fred shrugged, then cautiously prattled on about new recipes; on attempting (and failing) to teach Fluffernutter a trick. When he realized Pietro was actually listening for once, his smile brightened. 

"Logan's teachin' me how to drive." 

Pietro frowned. "Lance _already_ taught you how to drive. Ages ago." 

He'd taught all of them right at the beginning: Pietro, Fred, Rogue, and even Todd. He'd thought it might come in handy if he were ever out of commission or killed in a fight-- and it had, several times over. 

"I mean to _really_ drive," Fred explained. "With a permit and license and everythin'. Legally, see." 

Since when had playing by human laws been a priority to him? Not long ago, Fred had been just as willing as any of them to duck under the law. Polite society didn't make laws in Fred's size. Father would have said Logan was trying to take the claws from a bear by trying to take the Blob out of Fred. They were of more use to Magneto's cause when they were wild, slathering dogs hungry for scraps. 

Had Logan _tamed_ them? Had Pietro also lost some of his bite? The thought was worrying. 

Fred huffed a long-suffering sigh. "Why do you always gotta be like that, Tro? Why do you gotta get moody and bust everybody's chops?" 

Pietro scowled at him. "I'm just a realist. You're the one being all..." 

No, tonight was about Being Nice to Fred. It was about erasing bad feelings and making all the confusing things okay again. Or trying to, anyway. Hell. He was so bad at this, and Fred was the easiest of the Brotherhood, too. 

"Forget it," Pietro muttered. He pulled Lance's keys from his pocket; tried to hand them to Fred. "Why don't you take yourself home? I'll just run off a cliff or something." 

Fred caught onto him. No matter how fast Pietro could run, there was no getting anywhere with the Blob's fingers encircling his arm. Not without losing that arm, anyway. Pietro turned his head, teeth bared, fully prepared to verbally tear into the boy until he let go, but stopped when he saw Fred's concerned expression. 

"Tro?" Fred asked quietly. "What's... what's goin' on, huh?" 

He let go on his own, without being asked. Pietro did not run; instead shrugging disinterestedly. "Nothing's going on. I just suck at this. I suck at... Being lovable." 

Fred's frown deepened, casting shadows on his face. "Who told you that?" 

Nobody had to _tell_ him that. It was obvious! He looked incredulously at Fred, wondering if the boy was being deliberately obtuse. 

Fred crooked his arm at his side, making a basket, and looked at Pietro in invitation. It was a gesture he often took in battle training when he wanted to fling someone at an opponent. Pietro wasn't especially in the mood to be thrown, but out of habit he sat on Fred's arm anyway and was lifted up to his shoulder. 

It took some maneuvering to comfortably settle as the other mutant walked through the echoey parking garage, but he found his balance, a hand braced on the back of Fred's neck, legs dangling freely. Fred was very steady, and Pietro didn't feel in danger of slipping. No wonder Todd liked it up here. 

"See," Fred said. His southern accent was always just the littlest bit more prominent at the end of a long day, when the shadows stretched and he was anticipating a nice sleep. "I don't think the problem is you bein' hard to love. We all are. Everybody is. I think your problem is you don't know how to let us love you." 

If anyone else had said that, Pietro would have bristled. Made some sharp joke to end the conversation. But it was Fred, and Pietro didn't feel like fighting anymore. He pet the toothbrush texture of Fred's hair instead and drummed his heels. "How do you figure?" 

Fred shrugged his free shoulder. "You're always pushin' us away. Runnin' away. The more we try to hold on, the harder you fight, so we relax our grips until you come back to us on your own. You're like a half-wild kit: you want love, but you're too scared to take it." 

Pietro's face heated. He opened his mouth to snidely retort, but could think of nothing to say. Fred patted his leg. "The love's always there, Tro. For whenever you're ready." 

They reached the Jeep, and Fred gently slid a hand under Pietro, lowering him into the drivers' seat. Pietro waited in silence for the mutant to climb in beside him, then inserted his gifted key into the ignition. 

"What if..." Pietro chewed his lip, his pride at war with his curiosity. The latter won out. "What if I don't know _how_ though?" 

Fred's expression was soft and understanding, wiser than his sixteen years should bely. "I can't teach you that. You'll have to figure it out on your own. But I know you're tryin'. I believe in you." 

Pietro blinked. 

Fred leaned in close and smacked a loud kiss to the top of his head, pressing his silver hair flat. "C'mon, Tro. Lets go home." 

"Alright. Hey-- you never told me who was taking your place at the interview..." 

* * *

Kurt let out a miserable wail, his tail thrashing in consternation. "No! Don't put my dog in jail!" 

"Sorry, Creepster! Them's the rules! Put Fido behind bars, boys." Todd was grinning something fierce behind his small mountain of candy-colored money. 

Kurt tried to put a hand protectively over the tiny pewter dog, but one stern look from Scott, sat crosslegged with his back to the headboard, had him mounfully scooting his gamepiece across the Monopoly board to the little jail space. 

"Just be glad Pietro's not playing," Lance commented. "Last time he was so mad when he couldn't be the racecar that he knocked the board over and screamed 'Death before dishonor'!" 

The four teenagers were sprawled on one of the two queen-sized beds that comprised a hotel room. Because Scott had slept in it, the bed was comparatively neater than Kurt's rumpled disaster just across the room. 

"I'm still just surprised to be here," Scott shrugged. "I've never been to Manhattan before." 

"You're my moral support," Kurt muttered, then imitated Hank's soft voice: "'We'd like another visibly mutated teen to speak today, Kurt. Please consider helping out.' What could I say to _that_? What a place to have my debut." 

"I thought Fred was supposed to fill that role," Scott looked at Lance for confirmation. Lance, lying lengthwise at the precarious edge of the bed, propped his chin on his fist and regarded him right back, but Todd interrupted before he could speak. 

"Fred is babysitting Wa--" 

Kurt quickly slapped a three-fingered hand over his boyfriend's mouth. They were already risking Charles' learning of Wanda's location through Kurt's thoughts. The last thing they needed was the telepath's golden boy knowing that secret, too. 

"Babysitting?" Scott frowned. "Do you have a _child_?!" 

He again looked at Lance, as though he were the most obvious source for a mystery child. Todd shook Kurt's hand off. He adopted a very serious expression and slid an arm around Kurt's shoulders. "Yes, Scott. We were waiting for the perfect time to tell you... Kurt and I are going to be fathers." He patted his belly. "Little Houdini Hawke will be a beautiful October baby just like his uncle Lance." 

Scott stared at them for a long moment. When he blinked, Todd broke down into croaking giggles. "Your _face,_ Summers--!" 

"Teen pregnancy is _no_ joking matter!" Scott huffed, cheeks reddening to match his goggles. At least they'd successfully distracted him from the Wanda thing. 

"You're such a tool," Lance flicked a card at Scott's face. When Scott's expression showed just a little hurt, Lance looked as though he regretted his careless words. "Don't worry about it, okay? Freddie just didn't want to be on a show like this. He was afraid his parents would see it." 

"Fred's parents?" 

"They're the worst," Todd sighed. "Same old story you've heard a million times. They'd rather have _no_ kid than a mutie kid." He flicked his tongue out, snagging the dice in one fell swoop. They rattled around in his mouth for a moment, then sailed free in a perfect arc. " _Yes!_ Perfect seven. Lance, move my top-hat. Papa's building a house." 

"Gross, Todd." 

Scott winced and shoved a pillow behind his back when a decorative knob on the headboard stabbed him in the spine. "I didn't know that about Fred's parents. That's terrible." 

"Yeah, well. Don't go spreading it around." Lance leveled him with a stern glare. "It's nobody's business but his." 

Scott rolled his eyes. "Obviously. I'm an orphan too, you know." 

Todd held out his webbed hand. "Right on. Another one for the orphan club! Fist me, bro." 

"I told you to stop saying that," Lance groaned as Scott awkwardly tapped knuckles with the toad, looking as though he weren't sure if he _wanted_ to celebrate orphancy. 

The game resumed. Lance gave Kurt two hundred dollars. Kurt, still trapped in jail, shrugged and muttered a quiet "Danke." 

"How about finals?" Todd asked, counting through his thick stack of cash. "There's no way I passed history. Ugh." He flopped sideways and lay, pouting, across Lance's back. "What about you, Lancevelanche?" 

Lance shrugged. "I did okay." 

"What! Doth mine ears deceive me?!" Todd clapped his hands on Lance's cheeks, squishing his face. "My baby boy's all grown up and passing his senior year! Oh, Kurt, pass me a tissue..." He wiped a pretend tear from his eyes as Lance batted him away. "I knew all your studying would pay off." 

Scott cocked his head. " _You_ studied?" 

"It's not that weird!" 

"No, I'm just... Surprised? Um. Congratulations. What do you want to do after graduation?" 

"Why do people always ask that? Hell if I know. Get a job, I guess." Lance paused a second; squinting. "What, are you gonna tell me I'm squandering my life not trying to get into some swanky university?" 

"No, no, I--" Scott held his palms up defensively. 

"So I'm too _stupid_ to get into college, then?" 

"Hey." Todd cuffed the back of Lance's head. "Cut it out. Cyclops can't tell when you're joking." 

Lance laughed. "Sorry. You're just too easy to bait." 

Worry faded to startlement, than annoyance, on Scott's face. Leaning forward at the waist, he imitated Todd by also cuffing Lance sharply. Todd applauded. 

"What about you?" Kurt nudged his smugly smiling friend in the side. "And all your Ivy League schools. Did you ever hear back from Harvard?" 

Scott's smile dropped, and Kurt regretted the question immediately. "Oh, Scottie; I'm so sor--" 

The teens were interrupted by a cyclone of silver wind bursting through their open balcony window and landing in the center of the bed, sending fake money and game pieces scattering. Pietro, arms laden with fabric, gave a deep bow. "Never fear. Your hero has arrived." 

"Tro!" Todd squawked in dismay. "Tro, how could you?! I was _winning_!" 

"I saved you. Monopoly's a horrible game. Bad for morale." 

The queen-sized bed, not meant to take the sudden weight of five people, creaked alarmingly. Scott did a strange fireman's roll over the top of Kurt and off the other side, dragging the blue-furred mutant with him. 

Pietro, still standing on top of the ruined gameboard, crouched to be at eye-level, giving everyone's pajamas and bedhead a disdainful sneer. "Hey, Lancelot." 

"Hey, Tro." Was that a nervous flutter in Lance's voice? 

Todd cocked his head, curiosity blooming. "Did you run all the way here?" 

"I wish. I had to ride bitch on Logan's bike." 

Todd looked as though he'd dearly like to make a joke out of that. Kurt wisely interrupted before he could do so. "You're supposed to help us get ready for the show, right?" 

Pietro nodded, gesturing with the bundle of clothes in his arms. "Come on. Summers, you're on Lance duty." 

Lance opened his mouth to protest, but Quicksilver was already hopping off the bed, dragging Todd with him. "You too, elf. Come on. Strip down and get ready." 

"At least buy a guy dinner first," Kurt muttered darkly as he and his boyfriend were ushered to the room Todd and Lance had slept in the night before. "Where's Logan, anyway?" 

"He said he'd be up soon. He's got something he needs to take care of first." 

Suddenly alone, Scott and Lance exchanged a glance. Scott offered a smile. "That Quicksilver. He's quite a card." 

Lance averted his gaze, haphazardly scooping all the Monopoly pieces into a disordered pile that made Scott wince. "You could say that." 

"I bet he's a handful to live with." 

Lance grunted. Used one arm to sweep all the game material into its box. 

"But he's been there for all of your community service work..." 

"You got a point there, Summers? Did he hire you for his PR team or something?" 

Scott shook his head. He was such an earnest boy scout. "No! Just... Well. Jean said she caught a glimpse of--" 

"I told Red to stay out of my head." 

"Believe me, she'd like to. She's been having a really hard time with her powers lately. You're not the only one who struggles to control--" 

"Summers. Drop it. Whatever she saw, it doesn't matter. If you're scared I've caught The Gay and am gonna give you cooties--" 

Lance shut his mouth when Scott's jaw went slack, head cocked in genuine confusion. "The... Gay? What--? Lance, are you and Quicksilver--?" 

Oh, for God's sake. "Aren't we supposed to be getting ready?" 

Scott, accustomed to travelling with delicates, had packed his and Lance's clothes together in a hanging plastic bag. He now retrieved them from the closet, peeled the plastic off, and separated the hangers, handing over the first item of clothing. He seemed to be chewing something over and, as the boxer-clad Lance stepped into the thin black dress pants, he took a deep breath. 

"It's cool if you are gay, or... Whatever." 

"Gee, thanks." 

"Would you just _listen_ to me?!" 

Lance raised his eyebrows and made a little 'go-ahead' gesture with his hand. He stripped off the cotton tank he'd been wearing and held a hand out for the tailored dress shirt he and Scott had bought together. Scott passed it to him and tried to collect his thoughts. 

"Jean just told me that you're really unhappy. That's what I was getting at. And sometimes I see you doing things that... That happy people don't do. I just wanted you to know I give a damn. Okay? You're allowed to talk to me, if there's stuff you'd rather not tell your boys. I know you just want to protect them." 

Lance was so surprised that he messed up buttoning his shirt, skipping a button and wrinkling the fabric. He quickly remedied this as he tried to smooth his face out. 

Scott looked prepared for more scalding mockery, and didn't seem to know how to react when Lance gave a sigh. "Same goes for you. I could tell you were freaking out about the school thing. Let me guess: Charles is gonna be pissed when he hears the news." 

Scott winced again. "He already knows. He never _says_ anything, but I feel it every time he looks at me. He's disappointed I can't go to school in New York. Rhode Island isn't _that_ far away, but--" 

"Maybe it'll be good for you to get away and be a person instead of the weird little butler he's turned you into. You ever think of that?" 

Scott's protests against the butler comment were negated by the way he unfastened Lance's charcoal-gray jacket from the hanger and held it out, open, to him. "I don't-- I mean. We'll still work together. He has the jet; he can see me whenever he likes. I'm still--" 

"In the running for mutant Jesus? I know. But seriously-- maybe try living somewhere he isn't breathing down your neck all the time. It might help. And how do you _tie_ this stupid thing?!" Lance's callused fingers kept getting caught in the silk of his indigo necktie. Rolling his eyes, Scott batted his hands away and got to work. 

"You make an interesting point. But I thought we were talking about you." Like a mother hen, he fussed with the collar of Lance's shirt; smoothed the lapels of his jacket. "There. I told you you'd look nice in this, but did you listen?" 

"Are you sure you're not the gay one?" 

"That was juvenile." 

"I _am_ a juvenile." 

"A juvenile delinquent-- ah, see? There's a smile." He reached into his pocket and produced a velvet box which contained a rectangular golden bar and set to affixing it to Lance's tie, then withdrew two matching baubles. 

"Give me your hands," Scott said, clipped, and curiosity forced Lance to comply. 

"Are those cufflinks?" Lance asked, then flushed. He braced himself to be mocked for his ignorance as Scott adjusted his sleeves and set to pinning the gold in place, but Scott only nodded distractedly. 

He took a step back, looked Lance up and down, and huffed at the sight of his hair. " _Honestly._ " 

"I told you, you're not cutting it," Lance protested, stepping back defensively. Scott snorted. 

"There isn't enough _time_ to cut it," he said, tone implying that little else was stopping him from doing so. "Relax." 

Lance made a face as his long hair was finger-combed into obedience. 

"Okay," Scott decided with a nod. "You look decent. The clothes make the man, Alvers. Keep your head high." 

Lance arched a brow. "Your professor tell you that? That's stupid. A suit doesn't make me any more than trash, and it doesn't make you any less of a dweeb." 

Scott glared at him with such heat that Lance wondered if he was about to be laser-blasted through the wall. Then those hands were back on his shoulders, giving him a rough shake. "Not today you're not," Scott snapped. "You're _not_ trash, Alvers, and you never were. Today you're speaking for all of us, so put some confidence into it or--" 

What a strange person to be lectured by. What a strange, strange day. Lance waited until Scott had finished his rant before gently taking his wrists and pulling his hands away. 

"Okay," he said, surprised, with perhaps more softness than he'd ever spoken to Scott with before. "Okay." 

Scott blinked at him from behind his goggles, looking a bit lost to discover that he wasn't, for once, being argued with. He shifted his weight, cleared his throat. Seconds ticked by. "I saw what they did to you on the news," he admitted, voice gruff. He couldn't seem to meet Lance's eyes, instead focusing on a spot on the wall just behind him. "I think I would have done the same thing if that happened to me. I'm glad you weren’t hurt." 

The first part was a lie, probably. Scott would _never_ have caused such a public disturbance, not even if they'd been beating him to death with baseball bats. But as far as lies went, it was a kind one. "Okay," Lance said again. He swallowed. "Uh. Thanks, Summers. You should get dressed, too." 

He bent to pick up the shoebox containing his new dress-shoes from the floor of Scott's closet and sat on the end of the bed to tie them. Then, after Scott had turned for the bathroom, added, "And congrats. On making it into Brown. I hope you like it there." 

. 

Pietro propelled Kurt towards the shower. "Come on. Get that fuzz squeaky-clean." 

"Not me?" Todd asked, head cocked. 

"Nobody has time for your bath marathons, and the hotel soap will just dry your skin out. You smell okay for once. And didn't I tell you to strip?" 

"Okay, okay!" Almost self-consciously, Todd began pulling his clothes off. Pietro, disinterested, turned to separate the clothes he carried into two piles on a bed, one for Kurt and one for Todd. He hadn't had much time to buy and tailor the outfits, but he was _Quicksilver._ A little time was more than enough. 

He turned back to Todd and then frowned at his hunched back and bony little shoulders, the curved notches of his spine prominent in the harsh hotel lighting. That combination-undertone of blues and yellows never failed to give him a greenish cast under strong light. But there were more spots now; larger, more prominent. They'd spread out, covering a wider surface of skin, continuing onto the back of Todd’s neck and upper arms. 

Despite what people said, he had never thought Todd was ugly. Obnoxious, sure, but not ugly. Pietro was his father's son, after all. He was predisposed to find all mutation beautiful. And anyway, Todd looked healthier than he'd looked since the last time Pietro had seen him undressed. More filled out. His skin less dry and tight. It appeared that hydration and proper meals were doing them all some good, just like Marianne the librarian had said. 

Cautiously, he reached to touch Todd's back, right between the indents of his scapula. The skin there was cool and a little rough to the touch. 

Todd made a soft croaking noise, glancing over his shoulder at Pietro's face. His mouth was smiling, but his yellow eyes were wary. Pietro quickly withdrew his hand, feeling as though he’d overstepped. The sound of Kurt's shower-singing was just faintly audible. 

"Here," Pietro said deflectively, before Todd could say anything. He handed a shirt over, watching as that speckled back disappeared under navy-blue fabric. Deft webbed fingers quickly fastened the front buttons. 

"You can say it," Todd told him quietly as he adjusted the long sleeves. For once, he sounded nothing like his usual mischievous self. "I'm still mutating. I know. I don't... I don't know if it's ever gonna stop." 

Pietro worked to keep his face blank, unimpressed. "So? It's not that unusual. It happens. Have you seen what's going on with Evan?" 

Todd shrugged. "It's whatever." 

It clearly bothered him; it didn't take a genius to see that. But Pietro wasn't exactly a good therapist, so he let it go. "Well, turn around. I need to do your hair." 

Todd obligingly shifted on his hotel bed to face forward. Pietro had to prop a knee on the mattress for a better angle, finger-combing the dirty-blonde locks. 

He'd done a good job on the shirt. The collar fell open, complementing Todd’s skintone and exposing his delicate collarbones. Pietro played to that, sweeping his long hair back and securing it in a loose bun with an elastic and some pins, leaving a few strands to fall aesthetically around his thin neck. Pietro was pleased when he wound the free strands around his fingers and the curl held. 

"Very nice," he said smugly. Todd looked delicate; pretty, even. "I am a genius. You should pay me to make all your clothes." 

"I feel naked without my bracelets," Todd laughed nervously, rubbing at his wrists. His bare skin showed old marks-- shallow little white scars, as though left by a kitten's claws. His pupils were dilating and contracting rapidly, causing his eyes to flash red-yellow-red like faulty traffic lights. 

Pietro had noticed the marks before, back when the Brotherhood was new. Just as it was then, the sight of them made something in Pietro's throat dry up, making it impossible to speak. His rapid-cycling mind wanted to avoid the thought entirely, to not think about it, to not _see_ it. 

( _Everything is fine._ Everything _is fine._ ) 

"Your chunky bracelets would ruin the look you're sporting. But here." From his pockets he withdrew two plain leather bands dyed the color of pomegranates. He'd punched holes into the thick material, and he buckled them now over each tiny wrist. 

Todd blinked in surprise, holding his hands up to look at them over. His flashing eyes finally stalled at yellow. "You made these for me?" 

"I know they're not your usual thing, but yeah." 

"That's..." Todd gave Pietro a tentative smile. "That's real decent of ya. Could you hold onto mine during the show? Just so they don't get lost or nothin." He picked them up from where he'd set them on the pillow, offering them to the older mutant. 

Pietro, not used to being trusted with anything sentimentally valuable, took them dubiously. "You're serious?" 

"As a heart attack." 

Well. 

They were too big to fit into the pockets of Pietro's tight pants, so he slipped them both over his left wrist instead, stacked one on top of the other up his arm. 

"Thanks, Tro-bro." Returning to his good spirits, Todd set to stuffing his large feet into socks. 

Pietro watched Todd, struggling internally with his thoughts before finally making up his mind. _Fred's wrong. I_ can _accept love. I can give love. I can Be Nice._

Bending, he wrapped his arms around Todd's chest, hugging him close. He squeezed lightly, careful not to muss his clothes. Todd croaked. 

"Tro?" 

"When this is over, I'm dragging you to the arcade. It's been forever since I got to kick your ass at Galaga." 

Todd seemed too surprised to speak. One of his hands came up, resting on the back of Pietro's arm. Pietro began to feel self-conscious, wondering if he'd done something wrong. "You gonna say something?" 

Todd's other hand rose, reaching over his head and patting around until he found Pietro's shoulder. The angle was awkward, but he attempted to return the hug as best he could. "That sounds dope, yo." Was he a little choked up? "You gonna stick around for the show?" 

Pietro hadn't planned on it, but Todd sounded hopeful. "Maybe for the end of it. I've got stuff I've got to do at home, but I guess it'd be cool to see my little brother on TV." 

With a familiar _bamf_! Kurt appeared beside them, towel-dried and dressed in underclothes. He was hiding his eyes behind his hands. "Are you decent?" he asked. 

Pietro, who despite Lance's surety of pure innocence, was fairly certain Kurt had seen Todd in states of undress multiple times now, rolled his eyes and folded his arms. 

"Nah, baby, I'm bad to the bone," Todd grinned. "But yes, I am dressed." 

He stood, and Pietro tried not to huff. Even now, his shoes were untied. He quickly knelt and did if for him while Kurt looked him over. 

Kurt breathed in sharply. "Oh," he said. "Ich bin bis über beide Ohren verliebt." 

Pietro's German was rusty, but he caught the gist of it and smirked. The blue guy was so whipped. 

Todd shifted from foot to foot. “That a good thing, fuzzbutt?” 

“Du bist die Liebe meines Lebens.” 

Maybe Todd _had_ picked up some German, or maybe he was just struck by the sappy, reverent tone. Either way, he grew a little flustered, blushing. Honestly, Pietro felt flustered himself. Those were some strong words for a sixteen-year-old, especially when spoken with such sincerity. It reminded him a little of... 

He was happy for them. Really. 

“Okay, lovebirds,” he said, standing in a smooth dancer’s movement and clapping his hands together. Todd was holding his reddened face in his hands as though trying to force the blush out of his skin. "Kurt, lets get you dressed. I need to see if the flap I put in for your tail is big enough." 

This seemed to snap Kurt out of his lovestruck haze. He cleared his throat and fixed Pietro with a winning smile. "Can we hurry it up? They're serving breakfast downstairs." To Todd, he said excitedly, "they have _doughnuts_!" 

Todd perked up, as he always did at the mention of free food. “Oh, sugar-toes; you sure know how to make a guy’s heart pound,” he told his boyfriend, still flushed a deep myrtle green. 

_Sugar-toes?_

Pietro pointed accusingly at Todd, scowling. “If you get _any_ food on your clothes, I’m going to call Nintendo myself and have Pokémon cancelled. Forever. Do not test me. And _you_ -” this was directed at Kurt “- will have him in the car by nine or we’ll find out if orcs really do eat elves.” 

Wide-eyed, the two boys nodded mutely at him. As Pietro turned to sort through the remainder of the clothes on the bed, he heard Kurt whisper, "He's a little scary." 

Todd's response was immediate: "I know. But he's my brother." 

* * *

It took a lot of guts to tap gentle knuckles on Hank's hotel room door. Logan's palms were actually sweating. Crap. He should have brought flowers. Wasn't that what people did for big shows? Maybe there was still time to go get some... 

"It's open," Hank called unnecessarily; Logan could see the way the little rubber doorstopper had been wedged to keep it from closing entirely. Still, social courtesy was social courtesy, even for a 'badger' like him. 

He let himself into the small room with its single, king-sized bed, breathing in the scent of Hank's shampoo, and found the freshly-showered man clad in a towel, seated on the bathroom counter and using a comb and the hotel's complimentary hair dryer to groom his fur. 

"Oh." Logan's mind went a little blank. "Um. Did I catch you at a bad time?" 

Hank looked up, startled. "Oh, it's you!" He glanced down at his lack of attire, sheepish and caught off guard. "I thought you were Scott bringing breakfast." 

Logan shifted his weight, wondering if he was supposed to leave. "I can go get breakfast if you want." 

Hank stood, adjusted his towel, and passed Logan by, touching him on the arm. "Maybe in a minute. Come sit outside with me? I usually finish drying off in the sun." 

Logan, a little dazed by the scent of steam and mint, followed numbly as Hank opened the hotel's glass balcony door, where two plastic chairs and a small glass table holding an empty ashtray waited in a patch of sunshine. 

They sat. Logan, inexplicably nervous, fumbled in his leather jacket for the cigar he'd brought for such a moment. "You mind?" he asked. Hank shook his head, distractedly using his claws to fluff out his facial fur. 

Logan popped a claw to cut the cigar's end, then used one of the matches in the box by the ashtray to light it. Hank watched him with interest. "May I?" he asked, extending a hand over the table. 

Logan, confused, offered the cigar. Hank waved it aside and took Logan's other hand instead, holding it out to examine the adamantium claw still protruding. 

"Careful," Logan warned, puffing out a lungful of thick-smelling smoke. _Damn_ , that first drag was always so good. More than made up for the filthiness of the habit. Soothed his nerves like nothing else. "They're sharp." He didn't pull his hand away or retract the claw, however; letting Hank look his fill. 

Hank snorted, shooting Logan an amused, disparaging glance. He then ran the rough pads of his left paw over the back of Logan's hand, feeling the way the claws at rest nested perfectly between bone, travelling up the back of his forearm until he could no longer feel them; until muscle and flesh and hair masked their presence. 

"Extraordinary," Hank murmured, wrapping his fingers around Logan's wrist to turn his hand this way and that. The metal of his claw flashed in the sunlight. "You are so well put together. Your physiology is just incredible." 

Logan, trying not to smile, arched an eyebrow. "I bet you say that to all the guys." 

Hank shot him a _look._ "Logan." 

Logan had to avert his gaze to the empty flowerpots leaning against the thin metal railing of the balcony; the early-morning traffic passing by just below. He breathed in the scent of car exhaust under his cigar. He chuckled despite his best efforts, but the smoke in his lungs made him cough. 

"My turn," he said, and set his cigar down lengthwise across the ashtray. He retracted his claw-- slowly, because he knew Hank's scientist brain was just dying to watch-- and then flipped his hand around to pull Hank's large paw to him by the wrist. 

Hank's fur was beginning to fluff in the sun. It was the loveliest shade of indigo; deep and soft, and it was this Logan stroked before touching his thumb to the center of Hank's palm. 

Hank watched him, expression solem, as Logan carefully slid their hands together, lacing fingers. He then gave Logan's hand a cautious squeeze. 

"I'm glad that you're coming to the interview," he told his friend, their clasped hands resting loosely between them. Logan once more lifted his smoldering cigar, drawing a breath to keep the flame alive. "You mean the world to those boys. I think they're all more comfortable with you there. I know I am." 

Logan closed his eyes, settling his head back so the sun could warm his face. "You're doin' all the work, as usual. I'm just along for the ride." 

"I did want to talk to you about that, actually," Hank said. He shifted in his seat, crossing his legs so that his left knee received more sunlight. "About those things you said, the last time we had a conversation alone." 

Ah. Right. The bungled proposition, clumsy and half-desperate, offered by Hank's car. Logan had been trying _very_ hard not to think about that particular embarrassment. 

"Forget about it, Bigfoot. I said somethin' dumb, and you weren't interested. Try not to think any less of me? I can't help bein' an idiot sometimes, and I can't afford to lose you 'cuz of my big mouth." 

"The 'dumb thing' you did, Logan, was to offer yourself as some sort of... Prize, or compensation. I assure you, something so casual does not interest me." 

"That such a bad thing?" Logan asked weakly. "You smelled interested. I'm not _that_ ugly, am I?" Hank's stare was not amused. Logan was forced, at last, to cave in with a sigh. To try and summon the words to explain his jumbled thoughts. 

"You're the whole package, Bigfoot. You've got the brains; you've got the looks. You feel the same way I do about the kids. I feel so calm when I'm around you. How could a guy help but--" He laughed a little at himself, cutting off with a shake of his head at his own foolishness. "Ah, what am I sayin'. You can do better 'n me. You _should_ do better than--" 

Hank stopped him, catching his chin with startling firmness, turning Logan's face back his way. "Are you proposing a relationship, Logan? Because I'd like to hear it if you are. You don't get to decide how I feel about things before I've even had the time to process." 

Everything he said made perfect sense, but it was as though it was coming to Logan from underwater, or maybe that was the blood rushing in his ears. Cripes; he'd been on this earth for God-knew how long. It should be illegal for him to still get so flustered. Every time he thought he'd seen it all... 

It was with great difficulty that he unstuck his sandpaper-dry tongue from the roof of his mouth and attempted to speak again. "Jeez, Hank, I... I mean. Yeah. Hell, yeah, I'd like to be your guy, if you'll have me. For as long as you'd have me. I'd treat you right. That's what I've been tryin' to say all along." 

The paw under his chin shifted, brushing soft knuckles over his grizzled cheek. Hank's eyes, too, softened at the explanation. Logan closed his eyes, breathing him in. _Calm. Hank makes me calm._

"You know what I think, Mr. Howlett?" Hank asked, and Logan looked to see a twinkle of sweet mischief in Hank's expression. "I think, once this is all well and over with, that you should accompany me to a little bar I like, not far from Bayville. On Tuesday nights they have wine-tasting and beat poetry." 

Logan blinked. Long and slow. Very gradually, he felt a smile begin to eclipse his face. "Aw, Hank. _Poetry_? I'll just bet you want me to dress up all pretty, too." 

"I'd _definitely_ like to see that." 

Now it was Logan who radiated the aura of mischief. "Yeah? I think I'm gonna take you up on that offer. And then I've got a few bars I'd like to see _you_ at." 

"I'll wear my cowboy hat." Hank's deadpan retort had Logan _roaring_ with laughter and relief and joy and love, forehead pressed to Hank's shoulder as his own shoulders bounced. "Yee-haw." 

Scott, with a large paper bag and a drink-holder full of paper travel mugs, approached them from behind and tapped on the glass of the balcony door. "Knock, knock." 

Hank turned to smile at his student. "Ah, breakfast!" 

"Yes." If Scott was surprised to find a towel-clad Professor McCoy cuddled close with Professor Logan, he at least had the grace not to show it. "You're going to want to dress and eat quickly so we can drive to CBS. I stuffed Lance in the car and he's already getting cranky." 

"Understood." Hank stood and took a cup of hot water from Scott's tray, walking inside for a packet of chamomile from his suitcase. Logan watched him, his own expression unbearably, tellingly soft. He grinned when Scott offered him a coffee. 

"Ready for the show, kid?" he asked. 

"Ready to support them however I can." 

Logan nodded and clapped Scott on the shoulder. The three of them were united in that purpose. Though nothing regarding the situation had changed, Logan felt more optimistic than he had in weeks. 

* * *

The car had barely left the hotel parking lot when Pietro raced on foot all the way back to the Brotherhood house. Today was the day. He was going to be a half-wild kit no more. He was going to face his sister. 

The fact that most of the family was out of the way was essential. If he could just somehow find a way to get Fred and his cat out of the inevitable crossfire, the twins couldn't do too much damage, right? At least, not to anyone but each other. 

The nerves fluttering in his belly as he unlocked the front door were near unbearable, but the house was still and quiet. 

Pietro followed the faint sounds of the television into the next room, recognizing the xylophone notes ringing the air. Fred must have had the CBS channel playing all day, even though the interview filmed today wouldn't be shown for several weeks. 

"Fred, it's me," he called, reaching the room. "We got any popcorn?" 

Fred didn't answer. Pietro spied his shoes sticking out from the end of the sofa, though, so he stepped around. "It's a little early to be napping, isn't it?" 

Then he stopped cold. 

Fred was lying on the carpeted floor of the living room, still as stone. Pietro had seen Fred sleep before. Once upon a time, they'd spent every night piled in Lance's room. It conserved warmth, and made them all feel safer, though they'd never admit that last part. Fred had never before slept like _this:_ fully dressed, flat on his back, his arms folded on his chest, his toes pointed at the ceiling. His unnatural stillness made him look like an object, a statue of Blob, rather than a person. 

Pietro's heart sank to his knees and then rocketed into his throat, where it pounded so hard he feared he might choke. In a blur of silver motion, he was kneeling at the teen's side. 

"Fred? Freddie-bear?!" He put a palm on Fred's shoulder, another on his unusually cool cheek, shaking him aggressively. "Fred, c'mon, don't screw with me!" 

Fred didn't move. 

Pietro let out a strange noise he almost didn't recognize as coming from himself. "Freddie!" 

With a great effort, he rolled Fred's heavy head into his lap, then stilled when he felt warm breath hit his wrist. Fred was breathing, and steadily. 

"Oh," Pietro said aloud, his fragmented thoughts slowly coming back together into something resembling logic. He nodded, mentally going over what he had to do: Call Xavier's place for help. Wait with Fred until they came. Call Logan afterwards. He could do those things. 

"You're gonna be okay, Freddie," he promised, though his voice sounded strange: high, wavering. "I'm gonna make it all okay." 

As gently as possible he slid Fred's head off his lap, stroking his hair before standing on shaking legs and making for the hallway. 

_The phone. Xavier. The phone. Xavier._

Wasn't he supposed to call father, though, if something happened to the Brotherhood? He rubbed at his ear, scratching irritably at the cold metal of his earring. _Damn it, damn it,_ damn _it_! There wasn't time for this kind of stupid debate. He wavered between the kitchen and the stairwell, unable to decide whether to use the private cell phone up in his bedroom, or the landline in the kitchen. 

Habit won out. He raced upstairs and then stilled again when he saw that his bedroom door was wide open. He _never_ left his door open. 

"Hello?" he called, anxiety and uncertainty warring in his brain. He didn't like this. This was when Quicksilver _ran_ , when he protected himself above all ambiguity. 

_But Freddie..._

Peeking into his room yielded no immediate results. It was just as neat, just as tidy as when he'd seen it last-- 

"Moo!" 

\-- aside from the cat on his pillow, of course. 

"What do you think _you're_ doing here?" Pietro asked. "Come on. Off my bed. You stand in a sandpit of your own pee on the regular." 

He gingerly reached for Fluffernutter. Unlike Lance or Logan, he'd never seen the business end of those claws, and he didn't especially want to start now. To his relief, the cat merely purred, pressing warm as a sunbeam into his hands. 

"You're not so bad," Pietro muttered, scratching his fingernails just behind the cat's ears. The purring sounds increased in volume. "Your buddy is all messed up right now. I need someone to tell me what to do." Lance would have known what to do. Pietro was terrible at this. 

He glanced back at his bed, annoyed at the rumpled coverlet, and noticed the large, flat book the cat had been lying on. He didn't need to look to know exactly what it was, but he flipped it over anyway. _Kubuś Puchatek_ was the title, and the cover featured a simple line drawing of a bear sniffing a flower. 

Suddenly, everything made sense. There was only one person in his world to whom that particular book would be of any value, would be interesting enough to pull from Pietro's bookshelf and lie on his bed to read. There was only one person who had sat side-by-side in the sun with him, listening to the stories of Winnie the Pooh and his friends, read in the warm voice of a woman long gone. 

The house was too still. Freddie's sleep, too deep. 

"Where did Wanda go?" Pietro asked the cat. 

Fluffernutter had no answer. 

Pietro checked the house first: every room, including hers. If he was supposed to _feel_ something looking over her bedcovers, the clothing flopped over the back of a chair, the stack of books pilfered from the other boys, he did not. It was too devoid of context, too divorced from how he remembered his sister, to mean _anything_ to him. 

_She could be anywhere. Maybe father came and took her back._

But would father have had her hex Freddie? Somehow, Pietro thought it much more likely she'd done so of her own free will-- possibly to prevent Fred fighting back against Magneto. 

How could he know? How could he know what either surviving member of his blood family would do? He didn't know _anything_ anymore, and it was starting to make him feel numb, tingling in his fingertips, his face. He wanted, so badly, to sink deeply into his mind and pretend none of this was happening. 

It was only after he chased Fluffernutter down to push him back into Fred's room, shutting the door to keep him out of harm's way, that he saw a glimpse of red from Todd's window across the hall. 

He approached the window, cocked his head, and then was out of the house and across the street. 

A lone figure with ink-black hair sat on the blue plastic bus-stop bench, her arms wrapped around her knees, which were tucked underneath her chin. She wore a long red jacket despite the warmth of the spring day, and the slight breeze blew the loose laces of her boots. A duffle bag Pietro had last seen hanging, empty, in Lance's closet now sat stuffed to overflowing at her feet. She looked the very picture of a teen runaway. 

Pietro could still leave. Could pretend he hadn't seen. 

She looked so terribly lonely, though. Just as lonely as he felt. 

He took one cautious step forward, then another. The gravel crunched under his shoes, and he saw the moment her shoulders stiffened. 

"Sis," he said aloud. His throat was so dry that his voice was barely a whisper. 

She turned. He noticed, with some surprise, that on her lap she held the small toy cat he'd stitched for her. 

For a long moment they remained that way-- her, seated on the bench; he, standing just a few steps behind. Eyes meeting, posture unsure. Pietro knew he wore the exact same unreadable expression he saw on her face. 

"Pietro," she said at last. She didn't sound angry. She didn't sound like she was about to attack. 

"Yeah." He cleared his throat to regain control of his voice. "Can I sit down?" 

She jerked her chin in a nod. Ever-cautious, he approached and sat facing the opposite way. The bench was small enough that their shoulders almost touched. 

"Where you goin', sis?" he asked, scuffing his heels in the gravel. 

It was the wrong question. When she stiffened again, he flinched. He couldn't help it. 

"Are you trying to stop me?!" she barked. Her voice was rich, warmer than he'd imagined for all these years. Her accent, faint but present, reminded him of long ago and far away. She wore a full face of makeup and, he couldn't help but notice, it was terribly applied in thick, chunky streaks, hardly blended at all. A true beginner. 

"No, no!" He held both palms up defensively. His heart was a violent drum solo in his chest, demanding _run, run, run!_ "I just wanted to know how long Fred will be out." 

A look of guilt crossed her face. She relaxed her stance, just a little. "I didn't hurt him," she explained. "He is my friend. I just coaxed him into a deep sleep. It will wear off soon." 

"Okay." What more was there to say to that? "Okay." 

When she cocked her head, the metal of her starter earrings caught the sunlight. "When did you get all pierced up?" Pietro asked, and then cursed himself. He never did know when to keep his mouth shut. 

Her hand came to her ear, feeling the new, sore-looking studs. "You have one, too," she pointed out, not answering his question. 

This made Pietro snort. "Father forced it on me like a tag on a cow before he dumped me. Hope you like being jerked around by the head; you're giving him a lot to work with there." 

Wanda's expression turned stormy at the mention of their father. "He would not dare," she spat, with real heat. 

Pietro shrugged. How was he to know what Father would and wouldn't do, now that his little time-bomb was loose on the world? 

"Look," he said. "I get it. The piercings. The hair. The outfit. You're... You're reclaiming yourself, right? You've been the good little patient for so long, and now you're making your body your own again." 

The look of surprise on her face at the sudden bout of sincere understanding made something in his chest hurt. "You 'get it', do you?" she asked suspiciously. 

"Yeah. I mean... Bayville isn't exactly backwoods or anything, but being an openly queer Jewish mutant isn't the safest thing to be, you know what I mean? If I didn't own it, people would think I was ashamed or something. Sometimes you just have to make your outsides look like what you want your insides to look like. You've got to be big and loud." 

Her painted-red lips bunched to the side, questions forming in her eyes. Was she as curious about him as he was about her? 

She lifted a hand, but he didn't flinch this time. He watched warily as she reached out to him, then paused. "May I?" she asked. 

What the hell. It wasn't like he could possibly be _more_ screwed if her mood suddenly changed and she felt like frying him to a crisp. "Go ahead." 

Her fingertips along the gelled portion of his hair were surprisingly gentle. 

"You gelled it like this when we were children, too," she remarked. "That's how I remember you. You look just like mother." 

Pietro blinked. "Yeah?" 

From her broad shoulders to her thick brows, her comely features to her strong hands, it was obvious whom she most resembled. He kept it to himself. 

This was so surreal. How many times had he imagined just exactly this scenario? Sitting beside his sister, just talking to her. It'd felt like it would never happen, and yet perhaps he'd been expecting it as inevitable all along. 

Maybe the thought had occurred to her as well because she dropped her hand and turned away from him again, leaving him to study her profile. 

"I miss her," Pietro said. The moment the words slipped his lips, he regretted it. That was just a step above admitting _I miss you_ or even _I miss Father,_ and no less true than either of those soft things. 

Wanda curled the cat's floppy tail around her fingers, then let it go. She swallowed audibly and ducked her head. "Yes." 

Pietro rolled his next words around in his mouth, thinking carefully before he next spoke. "When we were five, you took our crayons and drew a dragon on the inside of our closet door. Papa was so angry--" 

_Shit._ He hadn't meant to say 'papa.' Father had not been a 'papa' in a long, long time. 

To his great relief, recognition shone in Wanda's eyes. "You told him that you drew the dragon, so that I would not be punished," 

"Yeah," he laughed, a breathless sound. "Yeah, sis. I sure did." 

Whatever bus she was waiting for, it clearly wasn't in any hurry to arrive. When she shifted her weight and her shoulder pressed against his, he didn't think it was by accident. 

"What I don't understand," she said next. "Is why father's precious silver boy would be living in a house with three brothers and a small, strange man. Why are you not ever at his side as you used to be?" 

"I'll tell you," Pietro replied. "If you tell me why you're running away from those three brothers and that small, strange man." 

Wanda's mouth twitched with displeasure. "Logan is angry with me," she said. "I'm being punished for sneaking out and spending the family savings." 

Well, that wasn't the answer Pietro was expecting. "You're running away because you're _grounded_?" It almost made him laugh. 

Heat flooded her cheeks; sparks crackled between her fingertips. Pietro edged a few centimeters away. "No! I am... I am leaving because I care too much for their wellbeing. I like the house, and I love the cat. But I know father will return for me, and I know they will not let him take me. I do not want them to be caught in the crossfire." 

Well. Pietro had had that thought himself; several times over now. "You're forgetting something. _I'm_ here. They had a target painted on them way before you ever showed up. If we aren't here to protect them, who will?" 

It was the first time he'd said such dangerously rebellious words aloud. That fearful child who still lived inside him, the one who had clung to his sister for protection from dogs and the dark, shivered at the very thought. Just saying such a thing was _open_ rebellion against their father. He half expected the man to appear before them, summoned by this new awakening, and strike him down; grind him under his foot like an insect. 

At her questioning look, he took a deep breath. "I'm not his 'precious silver boy' anymore. I don't think I ever was. You know, not long after he sent you away he just. Left me. In a store. I was in the way; he didn't have time to take care of a kid, not with all the work he was doing." 

Pietro joked about it sometimes. Some kids were dumpster babies; _he_ was a gas station brat. Hey, he'd even gotten a free slushie and some candy bars out of the ordeal before the police were called! But saying it aloud dragged him back to that day-- to the puzzlement when papa never returned from the bathroom; the confusion when he looked outside and saw that their car had disappeared from the parking lot. "I bounced through a lot of foster homes until he felt like tracking me down again." 

Had it really been tracking him down, though, or had Magneto been keeping tabs on him the whole time? Allowed him to grow up alone until he was needed, until he was in a situation where he had no choice but to agree to every demand? And how pathetic was he that that question kept him up at night, all this time later? "That's how I ended up here." The silence that followed stretched so long that Pietro began to grow antsy. "Wanda--" 

"That was a terribly cruel thing to do to a child," she said, and the sparks flashing between her fingertips took on a more solid sheen. Crap; he'd made her mad. "What an unforgivable thing to do to _my_ little brother." 

Oh... 

"Yeah, well. He pulled a lot of shit with my big sister too, you know." Pietro cautiously nudged her arm. "I don't think he's winning any parent of the year awards." 

He stiffened when she rested her head on his shoulder, the next words dying in his mouth. "I want to hug you," Wanda said. Once again, she sounded like she was asking for permission. 

"Do I look like I'm stopping you?" 

Strong arms clumsily wrapped around Pietro's shoulders. Wanda gripped him hard. She was squeezing the breath from his lungs. 

He sagged against her. Quiet. Empty. If she was going to hurt him, she could just go ahead and do it. He didn't have any more fight left in him. For once in his life, he didn't want to run. 

As careful as if he were handling some fragile thing, he wriggled his right arm free to wind around his sister's waist, softly stroking her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ich bin bis über beide Ohren verliebt= “I’m in love until over both ears,” (The equivalent of “I’m head over heels.”)
> 
> Du bist die Liebe meines Lebens= “You’re the love of my life.”
> 
> Lance was the shoe and Scott was the iron, if anyone cares.


	21. Bird's Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no business like show business...

The stage was rather grand. Old-fashioned; all reds and golds with a multi-light awning set in a faux-Hollywood style.

Logan and Scott, of course, were directed to the VIP seats; separated and slightly lower than the rest of the audience and much closer to the stage. Complimentary cookies and bottled water had been provided.

"Nice," Logan grinned at Scott, wriggling his eyebrows before stowing the cookies in his jacket pocket. He now had a cookie-loving man to impress. He could think of few things as impressive as whipping white-chocolate macadamia confections out of his pocket during a moment together. 

Scott gave him a grin, though he looked far away in thought. 

"Do you think they're going to be okay?" 

"Hm? They're my boys. Of course they're gonna be okay." And if they weren't, if anyone tried any funny business, well. Logan's claws were always one heroic snikt away. 

Scott didn't look convinced. As the main staging area was swept and mopped until it glowed and the set lights adjusted, the microphones and cameras were checked, Scott's leg began to jiggle. Logan could smell the anxiety rising off him in waves. 

"Hey," he said, and wrapped an arm around the tall boy's shoulders. "It's okay. Have you been taking your meds?" 

Scott looked sheepish. "I forgot to get them refilled before the trip. It's been a few days. I've been so busy..." 

"Aw, bub." 

Logan remembered when the kid was little; all the rituals he had to perform so that the world was still okay. He had to wash his hands four times straight, even if they were raw and chafed. He had to check the locks four times each, and if anyone interrupted this process, he'd scream and cry. 

The medication helped keep that panic at bay for him; at least somewhat. 

"You an' me are gonna do that together after the show, okay? It's not good for you to skip." 

Scott nodded gratefully. When Logan added pressure to the arm around his shoulders, the smell of anxiety abated somewhat. Maybe distraction was key. 

"Talk to me, slim. Tell me about that girl of yours." 

Scott was more than willing to do so. Logan listened, asking questions at every pause, doing his best not to roll his eyes when the conversation devolved from the genuinely interesting (Jean had made class valedictorian, despite the principal's best efforts to keep the position for humans only!) to details about each freckle on her perfect nose. _Kids._

"Is this seat taken?" a familiar voice asked, and Logan blinked in surprise when he saw Keisha Morrow grinning at him. She always smelled, just a little, of ozone. Logan had suspected from the moment he met her that she was some sort of mutant, but he didn't want to get on her bad side by asking personal questions. 

"Well, look who it is!" 

Logan and Scott stood up politely, and introductions were made. Behind Keisha stood a tall, curvy woman in a smart-looking dress and matching hijab, a hand on her rounded belly. Keisha proudly introduced them all to her expectant partner, Najwa. 

"I'm glad to see you," Logan said sincerely when they sat again. "And congrats," he added, grinning toothily at the ring on Keisha's left hand that had definitely not been there in November. 

He explained to Scott how the social worker had helped make his caregiver status the real, legal deal. The teen, looking impressed, nodded in interest. Keisha, in turn, explained how Hank had gotten them the seats. 

The two women weren't the only ones who'd been given VIP seating. In a flury of freshly-dyed fuchsia curls, Marianne the librarian threw herself bodily into the seat to the right of Scott. "Whew!" she panted, tugging self-consciously at a run in her stockings. "I thought for sure I'd be late. Fred got me a ticket." 

The audience filled up rapidly after that. Logan was more than curious to see who all had come. Intellectual types, mostly; stuffy-looking suits, the sort Hank probably did business with. But there were younger people, too, and some Logan strongly suspected to be mutants. 

"Chuck didn't say a word about coming, did he?" Logan asked. 

Scott shook his head no, lowering his eyes. "I'm sorry; he didn't." 

"Ain't your fault, bub." 

Not for the first time Logan wondered, with a hint of dread, whether he'd muddied the waters between Hank and Charles now that it was clear which side Hank took in their little cold war. He hadn't meant to do that, to alienate Hank from his boss and friend. 

_Add that to the list of things to discuss later,_ he reminded himself mentally, and tried to push his guilt down. 

Speckled here and there were security guards, both in and out of uniform. It was always in the posture and the shoes that one could identify an undercover cop. Was this normal for the studio, or were they expecting trouble? Logan deigned to ignore it as best he could. 

A vaguely familiar scent radiated from an approaching woman. A man, most likely her husband, nervously pressed to her side. 

"Entschuldigen Sie?" she asked. 

Scott shot to his feet, a warm smile on his boyish face. "Herr and Frau Wagner!" he greeted, and spoke to the couple in familiar, easy German. Logan was surprised, and then pleased, when he understood that Kurt's foster parents had flown all the way to Manhattan just to watch their son's interview live. And on such last-minute notice! 

The two greeted Scott by name, embracing the teen, clearly pleased to see a familiar face. They showed Scott their tickets and, grateful to have something to do, he left to help them find their seats. 

"Shouldn't we have given them our seats? Najwa quietly asked her partner. "He's _their_ son..." 

"I don't think seat-swapping is allowed, or I would," was Keisha's equally soft response. "Security is pretty tight. They'd check." So she'd noticed, too, then. Logan was relieved not to be the only paranoid one. 

In Scott's absence, Logan snuck a glance at Keisha. He'd been debating whether to pump her for advice on the Wanda situation, and still hadn't come to a decision. He couldn't keep the girl hidden forever, not if she snuck out again, so he wanted an expert's advice on what he could do, legally speaking, to keep her out of her father's hands. 

Magneto had relinquished legal custody of his son, but Logan was pretty sure Wanda had been in her father's custody all the while. He doubted he'd get to keep her without a fight... But he had to know for _sure_ before he threw himself into the fray with claws flying. 

He'd just opened his mouth to say _something_ \-- what, he didn't know-- when Marianne tugged on his arm. 

"Logan, I've noticed that Fred sometimes struggles to read the finer print. And sometimes not-so-fine print, too. Have you thought about taking him to an eye specialist?" 

Whoa; really? Logan felt yet another pang of guilt for not having noticed. Of all his charges, Fred was the least likely to cause problems. Sometimes Logan didn't always notice the things he should because of it. 

"Putting that high on the to-do list," he promised Marianne, tapping his forehead to show where his list was filed away. "Thanks for the tip." 

Logan allowed himself to be drawn into a discussion of local optometrists as a crew member took center stage and began overexplaining the rules of audience etiquette. Scott hastened back to his seat. 

"Shit," Logan muttered, as he again realized the enormity of the studio; the pressure that would be on his boys. "Maybe we _should_ have slipped Lance a Xanex." 

"Don't jinx it," Scott's hissed. "He's _not_ going to quake anything apart." 

Well hell. Logan had only been thinking of Lance feeling nervous; not of what happened _when_ he got that way. He felt a little better when he reminded himself that Hank was going to be right there, so of _course_ everything would be fine. But-- 

The host of The Intent, a wiry, middle-aged man dressed in a tasteful gray suit, stepped out from backstage to scattered applause. Scott, who had actually been listening to the instructions, kept his hands still. Logan followed suit, even though cameras had yet to start rolling. 

Hank had assured Logan that, of all the shows for this interview to be hosted on, The Intent was the best of them. Leslie Nguyen might not have been as popular as his younger and more flashy competition, but he was fair and never tried to trigger the various starlets into revealing sensitive information. He'd gone so far as to clear his questions beforehand with both Keisha and Hank, though he hadn't promised not to add more as he followed the natural path of the discussion. 

Leslie waved at the crowd, perfectly at ease, contrasting with the crew member who scowled and reminded everyone to quiet down. As Leslie settled on a chair behind a desk, an attendant came out to adjust, again, the angles of the furniture and the lights. This showbiz stuff was all pretty futzy. 

It was with little formality that cameramen emerged from backstage to set up their enormous and complicated-looking cameras in front of the crowd, all facing the area where Leslie sat. At their prompts, Leslie moved around in his seat; twisting at the waist with raised arms to ensure he remained in frame. 

Logan turned his head to watch a crew member at the very back of the crowd shut the doors and hold up five fingers, counting down and then pointing. _Show time._

A brass quartet in the wings emitted the shows opening notes and Leslie smiled; a practiced, expression that told the crowd _I've been here for years and I've seen it all._ He gave what was clearly a very rehearsed opening speech, welcoming viewers to his show and thanking them for watching. 

"We have a very special and long-awaited show for you today!" he continued brightly. The brief feedback from his mic made Logan wince; it was quickly corrected. Leslie was unruffled. "We discuss mutation all the time, but so rarely do we get to hear the actual mutant perspective. Today, we are honored to speak with Doctor Henry "Hank" McCoy, and three of his students: Lance Alvers, Todd Tolanski, and Kurt Wagner." 

From where they sat, Logan couldn't properly see what was being projected on the greenscreens just behind Leslie's desk, but he assumed by the way Leslie paused between each name that photographs or footage of those named was being featured. He supposed he'd just have to watch the actual program on television for the finished product. 

On cue, Hank emerged from backstage to more music from the quartet. Polite applause filled the studio. Logan resisted the sudden urge to stand and cheer obnoxiously. 

Hank, dressed smartly, looked perfectly at ease despite the whispers and stares at his appearance that filtered in between each clap of hands. 

Just looking at him made Logan's old heart tumble, just a little. 

Someone backstage must have been directing the boys, because it was only after Hank shook Leslie's hand and murmured an inaudible greeting, sitting on a comfortable armchair, that Lance emerged, an arm around both Kurt and Todd's shoulders. The applause increased... As did the whispers. 

Scott's hand squeezing Logan's arm was starting to hurt, and Logan thought he knew why: It hadn't been decided until the very last minute that Kurt would not be wearing his disguise modulator. His fur shone indigo under the stage lights. His tail curled unobtrusively around his feet. 

And there was Lance. Proud, straight-backed Lance, chin high and eyes defiant, holding onto the younger boys like they were his own flesh and blood. Like he'd obliterate anyone who even looked at them wrong. 

_Oh, my son,_ Logan thought, with rather astonishing warmth. 

Leslie stood and came around to greet the boys, and Lance was forced to relinquish his hold so that Leslie could shake their hands. Todd, ever the ham, made a show of popping on his toes to reach, emphasizing his short stature. The audience, and Leslie, chuckled warmly. 

Leslie guided them to sit on the loveseat beside Hank's armchair. Lance, unsurprisingly, took the middle cushion, his arms once again firmly around the smaller boys' shoulders. Logan watched as Kurt's tail snaked behind Lance's legs to curl around one of Todd's ankles, as though seeking anchor in a storm. 

Leslie waited for the noise of the audience to die down before fixing his million-dollar smile on his guests. "Welcome, welcome!" he said enthusiastically. "We are so delighted to have you all here today." 

"Thank you for having us, Leslie," Hank replied smoothly, not a line of intimidation in his body. Hank's confidence seemed to thaw the boys a little, which was a good sign. 

Leslie, perhaps accustomed to interviewing people unused to the spotlight, gave them more time to adjust by keeping his focus on Hank. "Dr. McCoy, you have a PhD in biochemistry, correct?" 

Hank smiled, not hiding his fangs, but not bearing them, either. "Among other things." 

"Tell us about that." 

Hank gave a brief rundown of his achievements and accolades, somehow still managing to sound modest despite the wide range of expertise. Logan was awestruck all over again. _What a guy..._

"-- and I play a mean King Lear onstage," Hank finished, and the audience tittered again. 

"Wow, wow!" Leslie grinned, echoing Logan's thoughts. "If you don't mind my asking, why did you choose to become a teacher with those credentials? It sounds like you could do just about anything with your life." 

"Leslie, I believe children are our future. _All_ children, of course, but my personal focus lies with mutant children. As one who is visibly mutated myself, it is my priority to ensure mutant children receive the same educational opportunities as all children. I can think of no better use for my time or skills." 

Keisha reached to squeeze Logan's knee, and when he glanced at her, she beamed at him. He saw that there were tears in her eyes. No doubt she was just as proud of Hank, her friend and colleague, as Logan was. Logan gently patted her hand. 

"Children like these three gentlemen here?" Leslie segued, and Logan realized they were all wearing button-mics when Todd's projected voice asked, "Oh man; I'm still a _kid_? I mean, I know I'm small, but..." 

Over the audience's laughter, Leslie smiled indulgently. "Forgive me. Young men, then." 

Todd grinned to show that he was only teasing. Lance was still sitting as stiff as a board, and Kurt looked a little as though he'd been turned into marble. Only Todd seemed to be at ease. 

Leslie, sensing this, directed his next few questions at him. "Tell us about yourself, Mr. Tolanski." 

Todd was more than happy to do so. "My friends call me Toad. No idea why." He wiggled his webbed fingers facetiously. "I'm a Sophomore at Bayville High. I live with my foster dad and some guys like Lanceman here. I'm a Virgo who likes long walks on the beach--" 

The laughter that shook the studio this time was even more heartfelt. Hank leaned forward, playfully swatting Todd's knee. Even Leslie was fighting to keep his stage-smile from becoming a genuine giggle. 

"Mr. Tolanski-- may I call you Toad?" At Todd's enthusiastic nod, Leslie continued, " _Toad,_ would you say that your experience as a mutant has been difficult?" 

Todd's voice was more sober when he replied, "Abso _lutely_ , yo. People don't like the way I look, the way I smell. The way I move. People don't much like things that are different, even if none of that's my fault. An' because I'm small, that makes it easy to beat on me, when they can catch me. It's been really hard." 

The audience, already endeared to the small boy with the big personality, fell a little quiet at this. 

"It sounds like you've had some bad experiences with bullies," Leslie said sympathetically. "If you could say something to those who have mistreated you, what would you like to say?" 

Todd, unprompted, turned to look into the nearest camera. Logan saw his golden eyes reflect off multiple screens as he addressed the audience directly. 

"I just want everybody to look at themselves, next time they hate on someone for bein' different-- really _ask_ themselves-- what are you gettin' out of this? Does it make you feel better about yourself? Does it make you feel safer-- make it easier to hide what makes _you_ different?" 

Had a pin dropped, it would have been heard in the silence that followed. 

"You can hit me," Todd continued, voice quiet but still easy to hear, as the studio fell absolutely silent. "You can hurt me. You can even kill me; sure. I probably can't stop you. But you know what? People like me are everywhere. You know people like me. You might even love a person like me without even knowing it. You can't kill us all." 

_Vive la freaking toad,_ Logan thought dazedly, glancing at Scott, who was staring straight forward, face slightly pale. 

"Those are some powerful words," Leslie nodded, going with the somber mood of the crowd when Todd turned to look back at him. He probably wasn't used to a show becoming so serious so fast. Lance's ungloved knuckles twitched, stroking Todd's cheek comfortingly, probably without even realizing he was doing it. "Powerful words, Toad." 

Leslie gathered his thoughts a moment before turning to Hank. 

"I've read some of your published work, Dr. McCoy," he said, changing the subject. "It's very good. You've raised interesting thoughts on the different social perceptions of being visibly mutated versus what you call 'invisible mutations.'" 

Hank nodded. "I'm glad you brought that up, Leslie. If you've read my work, you've no doubt read about my years suppressing my mutation." 

"I have! You were human passing for years until it became hazardous to your health." 

_That_ was an understatement. Logan and Scott briefly met eyes, then focused back on the conversation. 

"I believe that hiding who you are is damaging both physically and psychologically. Mutants like Todd suffer outside abuse for presenting as themselves, so of course closeted mutants in bad situations are encouraged to hide, if they can, to protect themselves. But an ideal world would be a safe one where nobody has to hide." 

The audience seemed split by this declaration. Just about half of them were nodding along, but some scowled or shook their heads or muttered to each other in dissent. 

Hank continued by resting a heavy paw on Kurt's shoulder. "My student Kurt has a unique perspective on this subject. We discussed this, and he has some things he'd like to share." 

Leslie leaned eagerly forward. "The floor is yours, Mr. Wagner." 

For a moment, Kurt looked too frozen by stage-fright to utter a sound. 

"He's shaking," Scott observed, troubled. "We shouldn't have made him do this. You should have just let me go up instead. Why did we _do_ this to him...?!" 

"Give 'im a chance," Logan advised. 

Lance's grip on Kurt doubled. He was pressing the teleporter so tightly into his side that it had to hurt. Hank's paw did not leave Kurt's shoulder. But it was when Todd reached across Lance's lap to take Kurt's hand that the boy closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. 

"I have a way to disguise my appearance in public," Kurt said, accent strong, tremulous voice filling the studio. "I wear it most of the time. I've never exposed my true self so... _publically_ before." 

His tail lashed like an anxious cat's, and Logan was annoyed to notice at least one of the cameramen focusing on it. 

"We are very honored, Mr. Wagner," Leslie said gently. "I imagine this is a stressful time for you." 

"Hank and I talked about it for a long time," Kurt admitted, looking only into Leslie's eyes, not daring to even peek at the audience. "I didn't want to at first. But this is important to me, because I want to be there for my friends." 

"You are close with Mr. Alvers and Toad?" 

"Yes, and many other mutants besides. I've met so many people since coming to America. I've made close friends. I've learned things about myself; about everything. I want to believe that the world is a good place, where humans and mutants can live together safely. I want people to look at me and... And see something that is not frightening, or disgusting... I don't want to have to hide anymore, and I wish I felt safe enough to do that. I wish I was brave like Todd, like Hank..." 

Leslie opened his mouth to speak, but Hank beat him to it. Looking Kurt directly in the eyes, Hank's voice was low. "You are immeasurably brave, Kurt Wagner. _Fight valiantly to-day; and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor._ " 

"It is unfortunate indeed that mutants feel unsafe; that they feel the need to hide," Leslie said diplomatically, "But what about human safety? Being a mutant is a whole different ballpark from being a minority. People have been hurt by mutants. Not always intentionally, but a considerable threat is still there." 

Lance shifted in his seat, drawing Leslie's eye. "Mr. Alvers," Leslie said, and inwardly Logan groaned. _Here it goes..._

"Mr. Alvers, I'd like to talk to you about the incident that occurred last month at your high school." 

Before Lance could say anything, Leslie turned and addressed the audience. "We've compiled news footage of the event. For the sake of brevity, we're going to play it now." 

Oh, Logan hadn't been prepared for this, though in hindsight it wasn't terribly surprising. He still couldn't see the greenscreens from the angle of his 'special guest' seat, but the rest of the audience could, and he still heard the broadcast. 

It was hard to listen to, even though he'd heard it several times now. Screams and shouts. News anchors calling Lance words that made Logan's arms burn in a phantom-ache just above his claws. Gunshots. Lance's voice, frightened; then angry. 

This time, it was Scott who slid an arm around Logan's broad shoulders. Scott who tipped his head, resting it on top of Logan's. Logan was dimly aware that the audience reaction camera was focused on him, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

There was a great murmur in the crowd now; people getting excited or upset. Through it all, Lance remained still. When Leslie turned to him again, he was ready. 

"What can you tell me about that night, Mr. Alvers?" Leslie asked, when the brief recap had finished playing and all was quiet once more. 

Lance answered his question with another question. "Tell me what _you_ saw when you watched that." 

Leslie, caught off guard, blinked. "Well, I-- I saw you attacking newscasters and protestors and police officers..." 

"And the gun pointed at me?" 

"It looked like a disturbance had already been caused by that point." 

The animal that was Logan wanted to growl and snarl. How dare they miss the obvious? How dare they side against Lance?! The professor that was also Logan merely felt worried. _Oh, be careful, Rocky._ He wasn't doing much to endear himself with that confrontational attitude. 

But Lance looked to be in control. He wasn't angry; wasn't panicking. He gazed calmly at Leslie, imploring him to see the facts. "Those people outside my high school were protesting a mutant-inclusive school play starring my best friend." 

'Starring' was a bit of a stretch, though Puck was still a lead role. The play had meant a lot to Pietro, regardless. 

"Mr. McCoy, myself, my friend, and dozens of other kids about killed ourselves putting this play together. It was to, uh, to show that mutants are just as much students as anybody. And that made people mad. That's what they were protesting." 

He spoke a little stilted, as though from having memorized a speech. If that was the case, he'd written the speech himself. Logan certainly hadn't heard it before. 

"Did that make you angry?" Leslie asked. "That they were protesting your play?" 

"Yes," Lance replied baldly. "Did you know they shut the performance down after one night? After _all_ that work? Of course I'm angry. Those people wanted us out of school; out of everything, for no reason at all. But that's not why I used my abilities." 

Lance swallowed. Leslie must have heard how dry his voice was, because he made a small gesture. A moment later, an attendant hustled out with bottled water for them all, there and gone in a flash of practiced servitude. Lance nodded his thanks. 

"I was in a hurry to get home," Lance continued his story after a few sips of water. "But my path was blocked. Mr. McCoy had told the news people to leave me alone, that I was a minor, that we didn't... Consent." He looked to Hank, who nodded his affirmation. "But they crowded me anyway. Wouldn't let me pass. It was overwhelming, and scary, and I needed to get away." 

He wasn't as good a storyteller as Todd, but he spoke clearly, and with conviction. The audience was once more silent, hanging onto his every word. 

"So, you lashed out because you were frightened," Leslie surmised. "Was it a lapse in control? Is this something that happens to you often?" 

Lance shrugged. "Like any skill, it's something I'm getting better at. Control is like a muscle you have to work out to improve. It was instinct protecting me that day. Can anyone say they wouldn't freak out if strangers were grabbing at them?" 

Logan couldn't help but smile. Lance had picked up that line from him. 

"I feel like we're dancing around the elephant in the room. Lance, you are quite powerful, and you have the potential to be highly dangerous. You can't guarantee that you will never harm anyone." 

"Can _anybody_ guarantee that? It was self defense." 

Frustration, for one hint of a moment, clouded Leslie's features. He evidently had his own opinions on the situation, and wasn't getting the answers he wanted. 

"But this isn't your average self defense," Leslie argued, trying to sound reasonable. "This isn't... Isn't karate, or, or... Mr. Alvers, these are _seismic waves_ in the hands of a teenager. This cracked an entire parking lot. This is like carrying a destructive weapon with you at all times." 

"We're not weapons," Lance said, eyes intent, a new sharpness to his voice. "There's people out there who want to use us that way, but we're not. And I don't want to be." 

Logan watched with mixed feelings as Todd tilted his head to lay on Lance's shoulder. They were good boys. They were _such_ good boys. Why couldn't the world see what he saw? 

Sensing that he'd crossed a line, Leslie worked to regain his composure. "What _do_ you want, then?" 

"The same thing most people want, I guess. To graduate high school. Get a job." Lance shrugged. "Love someone, maybe. Have a family. Travel. Live." 

A flicker of movement caught Logan's eye, and he looked up a heartbeat before the scent met him, diluted by distance and the crowd. He almost couldn't believe his nose and eyes, perfect predatory vision be damned, when he saw the briefest afterimage of a silver-haired boy atop the awning, and in his arms-- 

"Wanda," Logan muttered, heart pounding. He hadn't imagined it. Pietro, however improbably, had brought his sister to the show after all. But how? And _why_? There was no telling how long they'd been there. 

Logan could still smell them, long after they'd disappeared from sight. 

He felt a little ashamed that his first thought was whether this was some sort of Magneto-sanctioned sabotage. He trusted the kids more than that. He _trusted_ his kids, period. But... 

But Wanda and Pietro couldn't bear to be around each other, not even for a moment. And bringing her into a crowd like this could prove disastrous. What was Pietro _thinking_?! If Chuck had been there... 

But he wasn't. This was Logan's responsibility. 

Scott was looking at him, a little frown creasing his brow as Logan attempted to covertly stand, to keep to the walls and out of sight while following his nose to the back of the studio. 

Despite his best efforts, a few faces turned to watch him, frowning at his rudeness. He pressed a palm to his stomach and made a pained face, as though victim of a bathroom emergency that couldn't wait. He received a few sympathetic nods. 

The twins were hidden by the exits, of course. Clever things. Whatever window they'd managed to sneak through, coupled with Quicksilver's speed and Scarlet Witch's reality warping, had been enough to ensure they go unnoticed by _almost_ everyone. 

Hoping to avoid notice from security, Logan pressed into the shadowy alcove where their scents lingered the strongest. "Having fun?" he asked drolly. 

Pietro jumped like he'd been scalded. Wanda clapped a hand over her brother's mouth before he could yelp. 

"Oh, you found us," Wanda observed flatly. "We are spying." 

There were a million questions to follow _that_ up with. Why? Exactly when had they reunited? Was waiting for the program to be aired on television _that_ much of a hardship? Was Fred in on this little espionage? 

"You could've just asked for tickets if you wanted to come," Logan pointed out. 

"You would not have let me," Wanda replied evenly. This was true. Technically, she was still grounded after her impromptu shopping spree. "I wanted to see the show. Now shh." 

Logan bristled at being shushed, but the three of them stood in the cramped darkness at the very back of the studio, listening. 

" _Dr. McCoy, what do you profess we do about the mutant/human situation?_ " 

Pietro's lip curled. It seemed he was just as unimpressed with Leslie as Logan felt. If he was the best in the business, Logan didn't want to meet the rest. 

The twins really did look like they'd just wanted to be in on the show. Logan relaxed a bit, ashamed at himself for his unkind suspicions. 

"It looks like they're wrapping up," Logan pointed out. "Security around this place is pretty tight. You're gonna want to hit the road before people start leaving." If they could get themselves in, they could get themselves out. 

"Duh." Pietro was standing on tiptoe, trying to peer over Wanda's head and around the corner at the stage. Logan gripped his arm and dragged him back. 

"Seriously, kid. The last thing we need is any footage of you on TV. Your old man's gonna be miffed enough as it is." 

Pietro pouted, but didn't argue.

Logan glanced to make sure the coast was clear before leaning in to whisper again. "I'm gonna sneak back before anyone misses me. You two clear out soon, hear?" 

"Yes, yes." Wanda, tilting her head to hear the stage better, waved him off. 

Logan paused, taking a last look at the twins. Though Pietro was taller and Wanda darker, with their necks craned just so and their blue eyes bright, braced against one another for support, they looked every bit the brother and sister they should have been all along. 

"Don't think this is over," he warned. "We're talkin' about this later." 

They hardly seemed to hear him. 

Logan was uncertain what minor miracle had brought them together like this, but it did his heart good to see, all the same. 

* * *

The first thing Lance did when allowed to escape backstage was to rip his stupid tie off. It felt like it was choking him. 

The second thing he did was to fling himself violently at Logan, bending so he could slam his face into the shorter man's chest. 

"That _sucked,_ dad," he whined, balling his fists in Logan's sleeves. "That _fuckin'_ sucked." 

"I know." Logan crushed him close, a hand in his hair. "I know, Rocky. You did good. It's over. Proud of you." 

Lance sort of wanted to scream. He felt stiff all over from sitting so tense for hours. His jaw ached from clenching too hard. He felt the beginnings of a headache behind his eyes from all the bright lights. He settled for an emotive groan before straightening up. 

Scott was watching him, quiet and unmoving. Just wondering what he might be thinking made Lance feel anxious, so he looked away. 

Backstage, crew members moved about, much less frantically than before. The muffled strains of the brass quartet's music could be heard through the walls. People huddled in clusters, chatting. 

Lance looked around and found Todd standing by Kurt and a middle-aged human couple. Based on the way they were touching Kurt, they must have been his foster parents. When Lance tilted his head to eavesdrop, the fact that they were speaking in German with Kurt acting as translator confirmed this. 

"Mutti says that you did very well," Kurt told Todd. "That you were very impressive, and didn't seem nervous at all." 

"Oh, man!" Todd crowed, looking pleased as punch. "I _was_ nervous, dawg! But it was kinda fun, too. We're famous now!" 

It was interesting, watching their little family. What felt like a lifetime ago, Pietro had revealed Kurt's complicated relationship with Raven to the Brotherhood. If there was anything the last year had taught Lance, though, it was that family wasn't necessarily who'd birthed you. It was who loved you. 

Kurt's mom leaned forward, muttering something sly in her son's ear that had Kurt's tail squiggling in embarrassment. He covered his face with his hands. "I'm _not_ telling him _that!_ " he squeaked, and his mother grinned impishly. 

"Tell me what, yo?" Todd demanded, bright-eyed. "Tell me _what_?!" 

Lance caught Logan's eye and both had to look away fast, wearing matching smirks. 

Logan visibly relaxed when Hank finally approached them. He reached and touched Hank's arm, drawing him into their group. 

"I think that went well," Hank said, nudging Lance. "Well done." 

"Thanks." Lance was sort of hoping they could leave now, or at least soon. He wanted to get this stupid outfit off as soon as possible. 

As though guessing his thoughts, Scott sidled closer and took Lance's wrists, unpinning his cufflinks for him. "Knowing you, you'll find some way to break them," he accused, and Lance glared, but allowed him to remove the accessories anyway. 

"Can we go now?" he asked Hank. 

"Soon," the professor promised. "We'll wait a while for traffic to lessen. We don't want anyone to try and catch us on our way out to ask more questions." 

Ugh. That was the _last_ thing Lance needed. He slumped against his guardian again. Logan bore his weight without complaint. 

Lance looked back at the Wagners, and then blinked in dull shock when he saw Pietro creep up behind Todd, hooking an arm around his throat and dragging him back into a hug. 

_Pietro?!_

Todd flailed and sputtered, then relaxed when he saw who held him. Lance watched, baffled, as Pietro pulled bracelets off of his own wrists-- _Todd's_ bracelets-- and took the smaller mutant's hands in his own, sliding the jewelry back onto its proper owner. He gave Todd a fond pat and then released him.

Scott and Hank seemed equally surprised by the sudden appearance of Quicksilver, but Logan just folded his arms and glared as the other mutant sauntered their way. 

"Are you alone?" Logan asked, inexplicably. 

Pietro gave him a wide, 'butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth' smile. "Of _course_!" 

"Hm." 

Pietro turned his smile on Lance, sidling close. There was that ache again; Lance felt it whenever Pietro was around, but in the last week or so it had faded, which was a relief. Carrying that kind of _hurt_ around with him all the time had been too much to live with. 

"Well, that was kind of badass," Pietro said bluntly, and Lance blinked. 

"You watched the show?" 

"Um, duh. What else would I have done?" 

Hell, _Lance_ didn't know the answer to that. What _did_ Pietro do, when nobody was around? Did anybody know what was going on in that boy's head? 

"Oh," was all he could think to say. That was Pietro, always shaking him up and rendering him tongue-tied. 

"You're okay to go," Pietro informed Hank. "Nobody's sticking around. It's a straight shot to the parking garage." 

Hank exchanged a look with Logan, who nodded. Hank beckoned Todd over. 

"Actually," Todd said sheepishly. "The Wagners invited me out to dinner with them. Is it okay if I go, pops?" 

Logan smiled. "Go for it, kiddo. Be on your best behavior. Elf, bring him back to the hotel in one piece." 

"Yes, Logan!" 

It was a quick walk to the parking garage. Lance continued to be surprised when Pietro stuck with them instead of zipping off to destinations unknown. When the five of them clambered into Hank's station wagon, Pietro plonked in the back beside Lance. 

Pietro had been nothing but surprises over the past few weeks, what with helping out with Lance's community service and now this. Lance should have been used to the unexpected by now. 

Scott twisted to look over his shoulder at them. Lance, recalling their conversation in the hotel room, flushed and looked away fast. No doubt Scott was coming to all sorts of dopey conclusions about Lance and his sexuality and his relationships. Whatever. Let him think what he wanted. 

"I'm moving back home," Pietro said quietly as Hank started the engine up and began winding his way down the tall, cement garage. In the front seat, Lance saw Logan cock his head. 

"Wh- you are?!" Heart pounding, Lance stared at him. There was nothing but sincerity in those blue eyes. "What about, uh--" He couldn't very well bring up Wanda, not with Scott and Hank in the car. "About the, uh. Problem?" 

"We worked it out. Staying away got boring." 

The hell they did! What had been going _on_ while Lance was busy?! 

Lance realized his jaw was hanging open, speechless, when Pietro reached and closed it for him. "You don't look happy." 

"I- I- I _am,_ " Lance stammered, and he meant it. "I told you we all missed you. I just. Didn't expect you to do it so fast." 

Pietro shrugged. "Life is fast." 

Well that... Well. 

Settling more comfortably in his seat, Lance gazed out the window, watching buildings pass. He nearly jumped out of his skin when something touched his hand, but glancing at where it lay flat on the seat, he saw it was only Pietro pressing the backs of their hands together. 

Lance looked at their hands for a long moment, considering, heart in his throat, feeling nervous and sick... and a little hopeful, too. 

When he gathered his courage and daringly slipped his pinkie through Pietro's, he saw the faintest hint of a smile grace the other boy's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy (belated) birthday, TMBTP!


	22. Checkmate.

Wanda Maximoff loved her bedroom.

She loved her bed, small and soft with its fuzzy yellow duvet.

She loved her two side-tables with their gloopy lava lamps, ever bubbling, and all the drawers where she could hide secrets.

She loved how she could tape anything she wanted to the walls: Drawings by Todd; photographs from Fred.

She loved that she could shut the door or leave it open, and she loved that people always asked before coming in.

On the morning of her birthday, a knock woke her. She yawned and stretched in her pile of pillows, the motion dislodging several paperbacks and a comic she'd fallen asleep on top of. Before even opening her eyes, her fumbling hand found the tail of the cat her brother had made.

"Sparkles?"

"Come in."

Logan did so, regarding her for a moment with soft eyes. "Nice bedhead."

Wanda patted her hair, hearing it crackle with static. It didn't used to stick up so much, back when it was long. She peeked slyly at Logan from the corner of her eyes. "I don't suppose you know what day today is?" she asked, expecting him to say 'Saturday', or even just recite the date.

Instead, a grin slid sideways over his face. He scuffed a sock on her carpet; bent to pick up one of the books she'd been sleeping on-- the chemistry textbook she'd stolen from Todd's desk. "Well, now. It certainly can't be someone's _birthday,_ can it?"

Wanda's face lit up like the fourth of July. So filled with excited energy, she couldn't help but release handfuls of little sparks that dissipated before they'd reached the ceiling. Logically, she knew Pietro had likely told Logan, but still! He'd _remembered_!

And that, apparently, wasn't all. "We thought we'd have a little brunch outside. That okay with you? Kurt's here already."

Wanda was quick to nod, her eyes wide as saucers. She and Pietro held frequent picnics together when they were small. There was something about eating outside that made it infinitely more fun, and now she'd get to have one with everybody?!

"Right. Well, I'll leave you to get dressed, but there's one more thing. Would you be okay with meeting someone new?" Logan asked.

Wanda considered for a while. In the institution, that phrase rarely led to anything pleasant, but instead came with new doctors; new therapists. Sometimes 'new' made her feel uncomfortable. "What sort of 'someone'?"

"His name is Hank. He helped me come meet you that first time. He's my... What do you call Kurt?"

"Todd's 'special someone'?"

"Right. Hank is my special someone."

Wanda cocked her head. "Does that mean that he has legs for days and an ass that just won't quit?"

Logan blinked at her, an unreadable expression on his grizzled face, before he huffed a laugh. "I have _got_ to tell Todd to quit teachin' you things. I don't know about all that, but Hank is a little strange-lookin'. Big guy. Blue fur. I don't want you to be afraid."

Wanda felt a little disappointed. Frighteningly long legs would have been interesting to see. "Fred is big. Kurt has blue fur. That does not scare me."

"So you're okay with it?"

"He will not try to take me away?"

Logan always looked into people's eyes when he said the important things. He did so now. "I won't let anybody take you or your brother away, Sparkles. Not ever."

If there was anyone Wanda could trust, it was this strange little man. "Alright. Then I will meet Hank."

Logan's smile was as warm as his eyes. He affectionately patted her leg through the blanket. "I'll call and tell him. He's busy 'til noon, but he should be here in time for some cake. Oh, and stay out of the kitchen, Sparkles; Freddie an' I are brewin' up a surprise."

_Cake!_

 

#

She tried to enter the kitchen immediately after dressing, of course, but her way was barred by one tiredly patient Fred.

"But I'm hungry!" she protested, trying to peer around him to the mysterious goings-on just inside.

He handed her a banana and a glass of milk, and she growled, thwarted.

She could have forced him aside with use of her magic, but she, he, and Logan had had a long discussion after she'd used her powers to make Fred sleep; about how that sort of thing was just not okay, not ever. Fred's forgiveness meant more to her than sating her curiosity.

Holding her snack, she pouted, glaring at the floor. Fred took mercy.

"Close your eyes, sugar," he advised, and a minute later she heard Fluffer's telltale "Moo!"

Opening her eyes, she was rewarded with the sight of Fred holding his cat, who wore a harness over his fluffy chest that clipped to a leash. He looked none too happy about his new accessories.

"Fluffer could use some fresh air," Fred said. "Why don't you take him outside?"

Wanda reached for the cat, but Fred held him just out of range. "Make sure to keep his leash on."

Oh, but Fluffer clearly didn't _like_ the leash! Wanda wasn't much a fan of keeping things confined if they didn't want to be.

Fred must have seen the doubt in her face. "Wanda," he cautioned sternly. "Put a hand over your heart."

Wanda did as asked.

"Repeat after me: Fluffer is a half-wild cat, and he'll take any chance he gets to run away. You will keep him safe by keeping him on his leash."

Feeling a little sulky, Wanda repeated Fred's words back to him. His sternness faded, and he rewarded her with the squirming bundle of gray fur, slipping the handle of the leash over her wrist. She held both securely and walked outside to the scrubby backyard, where her friends were waiting.

It was a gorgeous day with an intensely blue sky softened only by the occasional puffy cloud. The sunlight felt good on her face and shoulders, as did the gentle breeze.

There was a card table set up with folding chairs where their picnic was to be held, and strung in the trees and wire fencing were colorful strands of crepe and balloons.

On the scrubby grass, nudging each other and goofing around, sprawled Pietro and Lance and Todd and Kurt. They looked so comfortable together that, for a moment, Wanda was hesitant to approach. What if she wasn't wanted?

Then Fluffer emitted a loud " _Moo,_ " and they all looked her way.

"Babycakes!" Todd greeted, waving her over. "Pull up some grass! We were just talkin' about how our interview was aired on TV today. I got to see myself on the big screen, yo!"

He patted the shady spot just under the pear tree and, relieved, Wanda carried the cat over to sit.

" _What_ did you just call her?" Pietro asked, eyebrows arched.

Wanda couldn't wait any longer: She'd been looking forward to this moment for what felt like forever. "Wszystkiego najlepszego z okazji urodzin!" She blurted a hint too loudly, and her brother met her gaze. He was smiling, but his eyes looked just a little sad, and Wanda thought she understood why. They should have had more birthdays together. This was an occasion too long awaited.

"Happy birthday, sis," he replied in English, voice quiet.

Fluffernutter squirmed out of Wanda's arms to bat at Kurt's tail. When the fuzzy mutant winced at the prickles of tiny claws, Wanda lured the playful cat away with curls of smoke from her fingertips.

"You really like cats, huh?" Lance asked, propping himself up on one elbow to watch, and Wanda nodded. It was interesting, the way Lance sat in Pietro's space. Pietro wasn't the type to let anyone close, but this family seemed to be the exception. Still, Lance seemed to be taking all sorts of liberties, even leaning back against her brother's legs without being shooed away.

The window above the kitchen sink eked open, and Logan popped his head outside to regard them all.

"Hey, Hop-on-Pop!" he called, and Todd snapped a salute. "We need your manly muscles in here."

"That's what they all say," Todd sighed, long-suffering, and stole a long kiss from Kurt to make his tail squiggle and curl before he did indeed hop off to pop.

"Gross," Pietro commented, but he didn't really sound all that bothered by it.

Kurt flopped back in the grass and stretched, a goofy smile on his face. "That reminds me," he said. "I'm surprised you're alright with a little birthday party, considering the crazy bash you threw last winter."

"Ugh." Pietro wrinkled his nose. "But I got so busted for that..."

 _This_ piqued Wanda's interest. Pietro? Getting in trouble? She was about to ask for more information when Todd emerged from inside carrying an exceptionally large, flat, and unfrosted chocolate cake in his arms.

"Babycakes, can you come here?" He grunted with effort, inclining his head towards the cement patio.

Puzzled, Wanda handed Fluffer's leash to Lance (the cat immediately began attacking the teenager's boots) and did as directed, her puzzlement growing to bafflement when Todd set the cake down at her feet, considered, and then went back inside.

Todd returned a moment later with a second plain cake and set it on top of the first. He repeated this process three more times, stacking cake after cake into a tower, squinting and measuring. At five cakes, he nodded his satisfaction. "Just one more, then. You, Wanda Maximoff, are a six-cake woman."

In a sudden burst of comprehension, Wanda gasped. Once, when joking with Fred, she'd said that she wanted nothing more out of life than a cake as big as herself. Fred had apparently _remembered_ such a ridiculous request, and was making it a reality.

As Todd carried the cakes back to the kitchen, Wanda turned to beam at the others. "I'm a six-cake woman!" she repeated, arms thrown out in her excitement, and hastened to rejoin them.

"With frosting on top?" Lance tugged at the dyed ends of her hair.

"We can add some sprinkles." Pietro pulled on a fistful of grass and let it snow over her head. She shook like a dog after a bath to send the blades flying. Kurt sneezed.

"Do not tease me!" She barked, with perhaps less heat than she would once have employed.

"Not even a little?" Pietro's smirk was so big and bright that it made something in Wanda's chest tighten and stutter. He looked, for a moment, exactly as he had when they were still small and full of mischief.

"See if I ever protect you from the neighbor's goat again," she grumbled, folding her arms and pretending to be cross. Lance's eyebrows rose. He looked to Pietro for explanation.

"I'm _not_ scared of goats anymore!" Pietro protested, cheeks reddening. "And anyway, he was a mean goat. Not some cute little thing."

"He would not have hurt a fly."

Lance rested his chin on his clasped hands, batting large brown eyes at her. "Oh, please," he begged. " _Please,_ Queen Wanda. Give us all the dirt on Baby-Tro."

As fun as it was to tease Pietro, and as much as Wanda liked to be called 'Queen' of anything, she refrained. She'd had such little time with her brother, and keeping those memories close had been a priority for too long to let go easily. "Perhaps later."

After she imitated Kurt and stretched out, wrinkling her nose as the cat took the opportunity to step all over her stomach, Lance opened a paperback novel and set it down over her eyes like a visor. "Your present," he explained. "Since you kept stealing it anyway."

Wanda was delighted to see a copy of The Outsiders, battered and marked with a barcode from the Bayville High library. She had indeed taken it from his room several times and gotten lectured for obstruction of homework. Pleased to finally finish the story, she rolled onto her stomach, propped the book against a knobby root of the pear tree, and became immersed in the written word.

* * *

"Well, she's gone," Pietro observed flatly, regarding his sister and the cat that had curled up for a sunny nap atop her butt. "I guess we didn't even need to throw a party. We could have just taken her to the library and called it good."

"Shush. She's having fun."

"I didn't even give her my present."

"How many of those little cats did you stitch, anyway? Just go put them on her bed like they're having a party; she'll love it."

Pietro grinned at the suggestion. It wasn't a bad one.

From the kitchen Todd called, “Come on, ya lazy bums! We can’t let Freddie an’ pops do _all_ the work!” 

“Coming!” Kurt hopped to his feet and, spinning dramatically, teleported, though the walk to the house could only have been twelve feet, if that. 

“Show-off,” Pietro muttered while a chuckling Lance helped him to his feet. 

Wanda turned a page in her book and did not look up. 

“I can’t believe that _I_ have to help out on _my_ birthday,” Pietro continued to whine, although he didn’t actually mind at all. 

Thankfully, Lance knew him too well to be put off by his grousing. 

“I don’t suppose you got _me_ a present?” Pietro asked as they walked together to the house. Then, before Lance could say anything, added, “There actually was something I wanted to ask for.” 

The Jeep had been parked further up the driveway than normal, as Lance was tinkering with its fickle inner workings yet again. It needed some new parts, and so its hood had been left open, exposing metallic car guts to the world. It was here that Pietro dragged Lance, ducking around the side and out of view of the house. 

Only then did Lance begin to look a little wary. He stood across from Pietro, face down, and ran a finger along the edge of the Jeep's hood, feeling the thick rust there. “Summers told be he’d bring a fan belt,” he remarked. “Sometime today.” 

Pietro didn’t care for fan belts or Summers, or for the evasion of subjects at hand. “I’m seventeen now,” he said, standing as tall as he was able and fixing his eyes on Lance’s face. 

Lance looked up at him, blinking. “I know. Happy birthday, Tro.” 

“So I’m pretty much grown up now. The same age as you.” 

Lance inclined his head, a confused furrow forming between his brown eyes. “I guess…?” 

“So, I. I decided it was time to. To tell you. I…” For someone who talked so much, Pietro was suddenly having a hard time finding the right words. Damn; and he’d practiced for precisely this conversation, too. He remembered how Lance had confessed his love all those months ago; how he’d felt crushed, panicking, at the words. He felt a little panicky now. “Lance, I…” 

A lump formed in his throat. Would he be unable to say it? 

Lance gazed at him, steady and still, solid as a mountain. He was beautiful in the midmorning breeze; the warm sun to his back giving his hair an almost auburn glow just at the fringes. His features were square and prominent, his shoulders broad and his legs long. He would not help Pietro fumble with his words, not this time. 

“Lance, when I’m with you I feel…” No, that was no good. “Lance, I… I messed up last winter. I messed up worse than I’ve ever done before, and you _know_ that’s saying a lot. And every time I think about what I said, I feel like something in my guts is just cramping up and dying. I can’t stand it anymore. I need you to know I care about you. I have to ask you. I _have_ to at least try… Will you give me one more chance to make things right?” 

Lance’s eyes widened. The ice may have been melting between the two boys, but this still caught him off guard. 

Pietro, in turn, closed his eyes, his clenched fists shaking at his sides. His legs ached to run; his heart screamed, _danger! Hurt feelings imminent!_ But he knew this was the only place for him to be. 

“I like you so, so much, Alvers. It kills me. I know I’m not always nice enough, or cuddly enough, or good enough. I know this won't make up for how I’ve been acting. But I want to try, more than anything in the world. Please--” 

The arms that wrapped around him weren’t wholly unexpected. Pietro shook as Lance pulled him to rest under his chin. As Lance ran big hands over his back. 

“Okay,” Lance said softly into his ear, and the maelstrom in Pietro’s veins was instantaneously soothed. He sagged, quiet now, and finally felt at home. 

Lance only held him for a minute, but it was enough. He pulled back, and his dark eyes were damp. He smiled ruefully at himself as he wiped the dampness away using his wrist. 

Soft boy. 

Sweet boy. 

_Beloved boy._

“How about tonight we go for a drive?” Lance asked. “Go to all our old haunts. We can… We can talk.” 

Pietro nodded eagerly. A plan! Time to work out all that needed saying! They would make things right again! It was the best birthday present he could ever have hoped for. 

Before he could lose his nerve, Pietro surged to his toes and kissed Lance twice: once on the cheek and once, boldly, on his lips. Little pecks, there and gone, and then he was sprinting for the house, a smile splitting his face from ear to ear. 

He helped carry the feast outside: chicken salad and watermelon and lemonade; corn and beans and devilled eggs and a large bucket of flowers all filled the card table. Onto every chair, Freddie tied a balloon. Catching Pietro’s high spirits, the Blob scooped him right off his feet and held him aloft, wishing him the happiest of birthdays. 

Wanda was, however reluctantly, pulled from her book, and the seven sat to dive into an amazing picnic with Fluffernutter, underneath the table, winding and tangling their legs with his leash. Though she hadn’t wanted to pause her reading, Wanda had no problem with tucking into the spread before them. 

She caught Pietro grinning at her and, almost shyly, returned his smile. 

Underneath the table, Lance hooked his foot around Pietro’s, locking ankles. 

“Slow down there, Sparkles,” Logan warned as Wanda reached for seconds. “You’ll want to save some room for cake.” 

"Oh, cake!" Fred got to his feet. “I thought maybe we could all frost it together? It’s kind of a lot of work.” 

Over 170 centimeters of cake certainly would take a lot of frosting. 

“You need some help, Freddie-bear?” Todd asked, reclining on his seat with his hands to his distended belly. 

“I’ve got it!” the Blob was already in the house, heading for the kitchen, when a new voice interrupted their food-lulled haze. 

“Good afternoon, children.” 

Pietro’s blood went to ice. He sat up slowly, feeling at once like a pleasant dream had, without his noticing, become a nightmare. His eyes did not deceive him: Just at the gate stood his father, chin high, watching them all. 

In their overfed, overblissed haze, the six remaining mutants at the table were still as the grave. Perhaps it was too incongruous to seem quite real: This beautiful day; this happy party, and this madman all together in one. 

Wanda, who lived forever in the expectancy of the worst, was the first to recover. “You!” she exclaimed, and light eclipsed her as she stood, enraged and ready to fight tooth and nail for her freedom. 

She was not fast enough. 

Later, Pietro was to understand that a house is comprised of more metal than any other substances combined. Metal coated the wires in the walls, the screws and the nails. Flakes of metal hummed within the concrete supports. Metal sheeting insulated; warmed. There is no aspect of a house, however large or small, in which metal does not play a role. 

“I have to say, Mr. Howlett,” Magneto remarked to the group before him. “I don’t much appreciate how you’ve ruined my Brotherhood. You’ve turned five adequate weapons into five human-sympathizing fools. I’m putting an end to the experiment right here and now. It was a failure all along.” 

_The interview,_ Pietro realized in sickened horror, remembering all that was said and broadcasted on television. This still felt too impossible, too horrible to be real. Surely any moment now he'd wake, and start his day anew, with only a lingering malcontent to suggest he'd even dreamed such misery. 

Lance, for once quicker on the uptake than any of the others, grabbed Pietro by the hand and dragged him backwards as fast as his legs would carry him. 

Wood splintered. Concrete cracked. Two stories of house swayed, shuddered, jerked, and at last collapsed on its very foundation. In the sparks and the crashes; the booms and shrieks and screams that followed, the world went black in dust and flame. 

# 

The first thing a disoriented Pietro became aware of was that he was lying chest-first on the ground, and everything stung; everything hurt. Todd could be heard shrieking for Fred; just his name, over and over and over again. Tiny fires were scattered here and there, quickly burning themselves out. The plume of flying dust was still too thick to see much, but the sound of Kurt's teleporting was unmistakable, as were the following noises of Todd's struggle. 

"Let me go, Creepster, let go! Freddie! _Freddie-bear!_ " 

"We need to leave!" Kurt insisted, voice high in pure, blazing fear. "We're not-- _I'm_ not brave enough to stay here. Todd, _please_ \--" 

"Take Wanda! Take her, she's not safe with him. I _gotta_ find Freddie!" 

The sound of Wanda's thick coughing seemed to kick Pietro's freewheeling mind back to the present. He sat up, reaching all around, and felt denim under his hands before thick arms wrapped tight around his waist, crushing him to a familiar chest. 

"Lancelot?" 

The struggle between Kurt, Wanda, and Todd became more pronounced. "What are you--" Wanda croaked through her coughing, and then Kurt teleported once more, and did not return. 

"Todd?" Lance hissed as the dust began to settle. Pietro's face and arms were covered in stinging little scrapes from flying debris, but Lance held him still, and he was fine. _He was fine._

"I'm here, yo. Lanceman? What--" 

"Kids? Kids, where are you?" 

The sound of Logan's voice brought with it immense relief. Pietro had grown to rely too much on the man, trusting him to fix all of their stupid little day-to-day problems. He struggled to stand, pulling Lance up with him, and felt around until he bumped into Todd. 

Lance put a hand on one of Todd's shoulders and Pietro, the other. The three brothers huddled close and waited to be found. For Logan to make their world right again. 

But Logan was not the one to find them first. 

Through the thinning dust and smoke, the red and plum of Magneto's uniform appeared in muted sepia. He looked at them all, a tall and godlike king surveying his most disappointing of subjects. "Will you be coming with me? One, two, three... But where are the rest?" 

"Freddie's in the house," Todd choked out, and Pietro saw the red gleam of his pupils before also seeing the dust-filled tear tracks streaking his face. "The hell did you do to Freddie?!" 

This gave Magneto pause. "He is my Blob," he quickly dismissed. "Surely he can survive a simple--" 

"He ain't 'your' _anything!_ " Todd interrupted, fists balled at his sides. "We ain't yours no more, boss-man!" 

Pietro reached for Todd, wanting to... To what, push him behind his back? Cover his mouth? Shake him? Before he could make contact, Todd was hopping through the rubble, searching, digging. "Freddie!" 

Rather than go after him, Magneto looked at the most powerful and the fastest members of his brotherhood, huddled close together. He looked down at the way Lance's hands were clasped tight in Pietro's own. 

Lance looked back and forth between Pietro and his father, and then he made a decision; a visible choice that Pietro's Quicksilver brain was able to see every minute, ticking fragment of. Funny. He might very well be the fastest living entity in the world, and still, when it mattered most, he froze. He froze solid, in body and in voice, and did not intervene in the time it took Lance to push through, to put his body between the two Maximoff men. "No," Pietro said, in a voice far too tiny to matter. 

But he didn't move when his father's expression fell flat at the flagrant disobedience of his Avalanche, nor when nearly four hundred pounds of Jeep engine, wrenched from the open hood, made sudden, brutal contact with the teenager, sending him flying.

Pietro froze as Lance's body slammed into the pear tree nearly twelve feet away, and as Logan's heart-bursting scream filled the yard.

Lance did not get up.

Lance did not get up.

Lance did not get up, and then Magneto took Quicksilver's face in hand, turning his son's gaze away from the crumpled and bleeding heap of boy on the ground and into cold, cold blue eyes.

The engine, still held aloft in the air, hit the ground with a thunderous crash. Whatever Magneto had been planning to say next was lost as a bestial Wolverine flung himself onto the other mutant, driving him away from Pietro with claws flying, teeth bared, and eyes overflowing, uncontrolled, with tears.

Magneto grunted as claws raked a triple-gouge down his forearm before Logan's body was ripped off his own and held aloft, supported by nothing aside from... 

From the very metal of his bones. 

Wolverine's extended claws warped like liquid things, turning inward onto their wielder. Something strange was happening, his body crushing and popping like a tin can squeezed in an iron fist. 

He held out as long as he was able before agonized shrieks echoed throughout the yard; a horrible sound Pietro would never be able to forget, not for as long as he lived. 

He dropped to his knees, covering his ears, and near vomited when Logan was flung like a doll into the side of the now engineless Jeep, as his bones fought to crawl from his skin, heating and fusing with the passenger-side door. 

"Stop," Pietro heard himself say aloud. "Stop, Father, stop, please, _Proszę!_ Papa!" 

It was this last word that broke through to Magneto. Lowering his hands, he turned from the tortured Wolverine and back to his son, taking in the tears shining in his eyes that Pietro had not known until that very moment were there. 

"You would beg?" Magneto asked. "For _him_?" He seemed offended by the very idea. 

Todd, trembling like a leaf in the wind, took advantage of Magneto's momentary distraction to sprint for Lance, reaching for him and then pulling back before his hands could make contact. Was it already too late?! 

"I would," Pietro confessed, keeping his eyes down. "This is beneath you. Papa, I will go with you. I am yours. Just leave them here; they are not worth your attention. Traitors to our kind, the whole lot of them. Our war will end them soon enough." 

Magneto snorted, disbelieving, but Pietro saw the way his hand went to his injured arm; the way blood fell to soak the grass. He would not want to linger here long, exposed and injured and vulnerable in this way. "It's 'our' war now, is it? You do not count yourself among the traitors?" 

"I took no part of their little show with the humans. I could have run when you came, and I didn't," Pietro pointed out; perhaps his only saving grace. It was so hard to continue looking at his father when all he wanted was to join Todd at Lance's side; to see if there was a possibility, a _chance_ that he was still breathing. "When have you known me to stay when it's my skin on the line? Take me out of here. I hate this place, these traitors. I never want to see them again." 

"And your sister?" 

"She's with Professor X now," Todd said, and Pietro could have slapped him stilly. He was _so close_ to getting out of this unscathed! Stupid toad, picking the worst possible time to get brave, to stick his chin out in defiance, tiny and terrified, webbed hands crimson with the Avalanche's blood. "You'll never get her there!" 

Pietro gathered his legs underneath himself, wondering if he'd need to cut his losses, to grab Todd and run and leave all the rest for dead. It was ruined; all ruined. He and Wanda had promised, _vowed_ to one another that they'd be there when the inevitable happened, naively believing themselves enough to keep this family safe. What idiots they'd been all along. 

"I see." Magneto mercifully turned away from the toad and back to his son, disinterest plain to see on his face. "If you're coming with me, Pietro, then stop groveling and come." 

Of course he would not wish to leave the scene empty-handed. One weapon out of five was better than none. 

Pietro was nothing if not a good actor. He stood. Brushed the grass from his clothes. Did not look at Lance again. "Yes, father." 

Logan made a terrible noise as he struggled to detach from the Jeep, shuddering in incomprehensible agony. "No," he panted, his voice barely a wheeze. "I won't let you take my son." 

It hit Pietro like a spear through the chest that Logan meant _him._ That, even now, Logan still thought he was worth protecting. 

He fixed a disgusted sneer on his face. "As if you could force me to _stay_ in this dump a second longer, old man!" he lied, and allowed his heart to become ice too thick to break. To Magneto, he said, "Why did you leave me here for so long?!" 

"A mistake and a waste of time, to be quickly remedied." Magneto put a hand on his son's shoulder. Pietro didn't think he was imagining his father's leaning a bit more heavily on him than he might otherwise have. His arm must have been paining him something fierce. "Let's go." 

And with Todd and Logan watching, Pietro allowed himself to be escorted from the only home he'd ever loved.


	23. Aftermath

It was a bumpy ride. Every time Wanda started to get her bearings, Kurt would teleport again, taking her further and further away from where she needed to be.

Bamf! They were in the gratified bell-tower of what might once have been a church. Then, Bamf! An empty field by a large, white building. Again and again, with hardly a moment to breathe. 

When the sulfurous clouds at last faded, Wanda found herself held tightly in an entirely new location--somewhere quiet and cool.

She pushed Kurt away, still choking on lungs full of soot, and nearly fell off a bed. Grimly, the other mutant held onto her until she could breathe again. Tears of soot streaked down her cheeks as she looked around.

It was a large bedroom she found herself in, containing two beds in the same way she and Pietro had once shared a space. One side was tidy and academic; all books on shelves organized by height. The other was messy and full of eclectic items ranging from paints to toys to burger wrappers. 

It was certainly _not_ the house where she lived. _That_ house had been... 

Wanda leapt from the bed and sprinted for the door. She had to get home! She had to _fight_! To protect! 

Kurt scrambled after her, grabbing for her arm. She swung at him, using her powers to hurl him onto the bed. Logan had said that it was Wrong to use her powers against friends, but she made sure not to hurt Kurt; only to pin him in place as she wrenched the door open and found herself in a long, winding hallway; all lush carpets and enormous oil paintings and bracketed wall-lights. 

She picked a direction and ran, not caring that she was filthy; scratched; bleeding. Not noticing as her hands left prints of ash on the walls. 

She reached a double staircase and, without hesitation, flung herself over the railing, using her powers to slow and cushion her landing. The sound of many voices behind double-doors gave her pause. Wherever Kurt had taken her, she was not alone. 

Not wanting to be intercepted by strangers, she turned to scout another way from this labyrinth of a house and found her path blocked by a tall woman with dark skin and long, flowing white hair. 

"Oh!" the woman exclaimed, clearly as surprised to see Wanda as Wanda was to see her. Wanda defensively raised her hands, frightened enough to lash out, when the doors behind her opened. 

"Wanda Maximoff!" came an all-too familiar voice, and Wanda bared her teeth. 

"I do _not_ have time for you, Charles!" she snarled without bothering to turn around. "Father has attacked our home and I _must--_ " 

She felt him breach her mind; cold fingers slipping into the folds of her brain, prodding at her most recent memories. It infuriated her. She knew Charles. If she wasn't careful, he'd use that hold to trap her; to render her helpless. 

Whirling on him, she used her powers to force him, wheelchair and all, back into the room where he'd come from. 

Just before she slammed the doors in his face, she saw that the room was full of teenagers sitting at desks, all staring at her in shock. She herself felt a little in shock. This was as surreal and random as a stress-dream. 

The tall woman pounced on her, twisting Wanda's arms behind her back with confidence and strength. She managed, Wanda observed, to successfully restrain her without hurting her. 

"Let me go!" Wanda thrashed wildly from side to side, almost managing to break away when two teens phased _through_ the wood of the door as though it were mist. One girl was small; dark-haired and sweet-faced. 

The other was familiar, with her two-toned hair and those intense gray eyes. Wanda flipped rapidly through her memories, trying to place her. The familiar girl pulled away from the one dressed in all pink and used her teeth to rip her gloves off. 

"Do not--" Wanda tried to take a hasty step away, but her escape was barred by the woman who held her. It was only when the girl's bare hands cupped Wanda's cheeks that it dawned on her. "Rogue?" 

Rogue, who'd sold her makeup at the mall not too long ago, who had inspired Wanda's hair choices, blinked in surprise. Her touch felt like Wanda thought striking lightning might: Blisteringly hot, and then icy cold, and then an absence of feeling altogether; a sucking void. 

The void spread like poison throughout Wanda's body, draining her entirely. Unable to keep up her attack, she sagged; knees buckling. The white-haired woman supported the weight of her immobilized body. 

"What did you _do_ to me?" Wanda gasped, and the world faded away.

* * *

Fred had seen specials on TV about people buried in snow or sand, not knowing which way was up. They thought they were climbing out, but really they were digging themselves deeper. 

He'd never seen a TV special about someone trapped in their own collapsed home. 

It was dark as night in here, quiet as the grave, and it was getting pretty hard to breathe. As immeasurable time passed, Fred began to worry. Had he died? Had he been forgotten? Were the others hurt? Was this-- 

He tried to move; found himself sinking deeper. Heard the creak and crash of objects displaced by his movement burying him further. Immediately he fell still again. Fred wasn't prone to panic or claustrophobia, but... 

Eventually, _eventually,_ there was light from above. He heard grunting. 

"Freddie-Bear?" Todd called, desperately hopeful. 

"I'm in here!" 

"Oh!" Todd's voice sounded like a sob. "Okay. Okayokayokay, yo. Just keep on talkin' to me, Fredster." 

Fred did. He kept up a stream of nervous conversation that would have made chatterbox-Pietro proud. As the above light grew brighter, he helped dig himself out, shifting remnants of the oven and some cabinets aside. 

Hank looked down at him, reaching for his hands. 

Todd, miraculously unhurt, was there the moment Fred climbed free from the pile of house, flinging himself into Fred's arms. Fred held Todd's tiny, shaking body as tightly as he dared. 

Hank bade him sit; looked at his pupils; checked out the worst of his cuts and scratches. 

"I believe you are in shock, Mr. Dukes," he remarked. Fred didn't know how to respond to that. To Todd, Hank said, "Stay with him." 

"You got it, man. I ain't goin' nowhere." 

Hank left them on the grass, where Fred remained a long time, looking at nothing but a flake of ash caught on some sheeting. Todd's hands were so, so gentle in Fred's hair as they worked out the chips of drywall. 

"I think Hank keeps a first aid kit in his van," Todd finally said. "We gotta clean your scratches up, buddy." 

So Fred stood, Todd on his shoulder, and walked past the ruins of the house that seemed to stretch forever in all directions. 

He came across Scott, who was squatting by the pear tree, a brick-sized cell phone held to his ear. "No," Scott was saying. "I don't feel comfortable moving him. I'm afraid his neck or spine might be compromised. Yes, he's breathing." 

Fred looked down at the ground, at the crumpled thing Scott crouched over. 

It was not a thing. 

It was Lance. 

"Nononono, Freddie," Todd moaned, his hands quick to cover Fred's eyes. "Don't look. Just keep walkin', okay?" 

It was too late. Fred had already seen. 

Numbly, he made it to the van, then sat on the road beside it. Todd tunneled in through the back and emerged with a plastic box and several bottles of water. Fred held still as Todd took care of him, realizing dimly that fat tears were leaking slowly from his eyes, hitting his lap with wet little plops. Todd wiped them from Fred's cheeks with his sleeve. 

Eventually an ambulance came and left, Scott crawling in alongside the gurney that held Lance. 

"Where's Hank?" Fred asked, when Todd coaxed him into sipping some water. 

"He's..." Todd lowered his voice. "Logan's in a rough spot right now, dawg. Hank's waitin' with him 'til Pryde can come an' phase him out." 

A rough situation? If Logan was stuck in something, surely Fred was strong enough to pull him out of it, right? What good was strength like his if he couldn't use it to help his loved ones? 

Something in Todd's expression told him it wasn't as simple as that. He let it go. 

"What happened to us?" he asked finally. 

"Magneto." 

"Oh..." Fred processed this. He felt like his brain was starting to work again, if sluggishly. Then he gasped. "Wanda! Pietro! Are they--" 

"Kurt took Wanda. They're fine." 

"And Pietro?" 

The shuttered expression on Todd's face made something inside Fred's chest tear a little. _No...!_

A sleek black car pulled alongside the curb, just where the ambulance had been. Out poured the uniform-clad X-Men like clowns in a circus act. Kitty and Bobby sprinted to where Hank had disappeared, apparently having been told of Logan's predicament. 

A russet wolf loped to Fred's side carrying a gray bundle in her jaws. Fred held his hands out, and into them the wolf plopped Fluffernutter before transitioning smoothly into her two-legged form. 

"He's alright," Rahne reassured in her warm accent. "Just scared. He ran like the wind. Had to track him down by scent." 

Fluffer was, indeed, trembling almost as badly as he had the day Fred found him, half-frozen in the storm drain. Fred quickly pulled the strap of his overalls down, tucking the cat into his shirt. "Thank you," was all he managed to say, voice choked. 

Rahne seemed to understand. She clapped him brusquely on the shoulder before joining her fellow X-Men picking through the rubble.

Ororo approached the boys next, scrutinizing them. "Logan says I should get you to the mansion," she said. "It might take a while to free him. We're arranging rooms for you." 

"Wanda and Kurt are there already, right?" Todd confirmed, holding tight to Fred. Fred held him back, wary of being separated. 

Ororo nodded, and so they got into her car, and were silent for the entire drive.

* * *

Logan's nose was too stuffed up to smell the person knocking at his door, but he had a guess as to their identity.

"I just wanna be alone right now, Bigfoot," he said. "Maybe later?" 

"It's me," Charles said from the other side of the door. "May I come in?" 

Damn. Logan was useless without his nose. Maybe Logan was just useless, period. 

Completely, utterly, hopelessly useless. Pathetic. Unable to do anything but lie here and boo-hoo like a baby. He couldn't remember ever crying so much in his life; wasn't sure if it was grief or rage or shame or defeat or frustration, only that there was too damn _much_ of it. 

As a fresh wave of tears welled in his aching eyes, the door creaked open. Charles wheeled quietly into Logan's darkened room and waited patiently by his bed. 

"Logan..." Charles said, an aching note in his voice. Logan did not flinch from the hand touching his side, but it was a near thing. 

"Don't," Logan protested thickly. "Don't you even say that it's not my fault, Chuck. You have no idea--" 

Cool wisps of thought carded his burning mind, and he was too tired to do anything but allow it. 

As carefully as picking glass from a wound, Charles sorted through Logan's memories, soothing his headache and finding the raw spots. 

"He has gone too far this time," Charles commented regretfully, focusing on Magneto's cold face. 

"You _think_?" Logan snorted, pulling away to scrub his wet cheeks with his sleeve. "I failed them," he gulped. "I failed my kids." 

Charles made soothing noises, his hand gentle in Logan's hair. They sat in silence for a time, like they used to back when the world was simpler. Before they'd taken opposing sides on their rift. 

When Charles looked at the phone on Logan's side-table, Logan thought, _The hospital called. Lance is in intensive care._

Charles, catching a wisp of fearful memory ( _facial reconstructive surgery_ ), hissed a sympathetic breath between his teeth. 

Logan nodded. "Yeah. It-- they're talkin' about a, uh. A metal plate in his cheek? If he wants a chance of keepin' his left eye, they need to rebuild the socket." 

There were other issues, too. Cerebral contusion. A fractured scapula. But it could have been so much worse. Logan knew he should count himself lucky... 

_My son..._

"I'll pay for all medical expenses," Charles promised quickly. "We will have your house rebuilt." 

A thought slipped between them, unbidden and bitter. _Oh, so_ now _you'll help?_

Charles flinched at the barb. His hand dropped from Logan's hair. "I have been... Unyielding," he admitted. "In my pride, I lost sight of what's most important. Today has been a brutal reminder in what I stand to lose. Logan, I--" **I love you.**

The thought felt heavy as lead in Logan's gut. Too fresh. Too raw. When Logan made no response, Charles pulled back a few inches, and looked only at the floor. 

"You and your... your children may stay here as long as you need," he declared, finally. "Indefinitely, if need be. You have my protection." 

"Wanda, too?" Logan pressed, uncompromising. "You'll protect Wanda, too?" 

"Yes, Logan. Wanda too. I'd been wondering what you were being so secritive about... Now I know, I suppose." 

Charles passed Logan an image; a recent memory. In the bedroom Kurt normally shared with Scott, Wanda slept alone in Scott's bed, completely bundled aside from one hand, which extended over the mattress and close to the floor. 

Fred's big hand enveloped hers from where he nested in his mountain of blankets and pillows on the floor between beds, his beloved cat snoozing on his chest. 

In Kurt's bed dozed Todd and his boyfriend, curled inseparably around one another. 

Logan's children: safe and sound. 

Most of them, anyway. 

"Can you bring Pietro back?" he asked. "C'mon, Chuck... If anyone can talk to that batshit dad of his, it's you, ain't it?"

"You're asking me to take a son away from his father," Charles clarified flatly. 

"I'm askin' you to take _my_ son away from a madman," Logan countered, annoyed. 

Charles cocked his head. "From your memories, it seems that Pietro left with him of his own will." 

"I dunno if 'to stop him from killin' us' counts as 'of his own will,' but alright." Was Charles being stupid on purpose?! 

Charles sighed, as though hearing this thought. "Logan," he began. "I have more experience with his bloodline than you know. They cannot be controlled. They do as they please. I know it hurts, but--" 

"He didn't leave cuz he wanted to!" Logan sat up, bearing his teeth. "Who knows what that nutjob is doin' to him? _Sayin'_ to him?! It's time to bring him home." 

"Have you considered that he _is_ home?" Charles countered, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight. **It was only a matter of time,** he thought. 

He really believed that, too. He _really_ thought that-- 

"Forget it." Logan swung his legs out of bed, fumbling for his boots. His bones had reset; his flesh grown back. He was whole enough to go out again. "I'll get 'im myself." He didn't know where to start looking, but he could probably sniff out a trail. 

Charles watched him, mouth pinched in frustration. "Spectacular idea, Logan," he snapped. "I'm sure you'll make a lovely metal sculpture for Erik to hang above his mantle."

"Better than doin' nothin'." 

"You're unbelievable. Lance is vulnerable in hospital. At least wait until he's protected before you stage an attack." 

This brought Logan up short. It was absolutely true-- Lance, in a medically induced coma, was currently held in intensive care, where no visitors were allowed. It'd take a truly twisted soul to harm an unconscious, injured teenager, but... 

Would Magneto truly go so far to keep Logan in line? After the events of the day, Logan couldn't rule the possibility out. 

His family had been torn apart, and the animal inside him wouldn't rest until they were all safe in his nest again. What to do; what to _do_ \-- 

He heard himself growling; felt it rumble his chest, and forced himself to drop his boots and sink back onto the bed, rubbing at his eyes, his temples. "What would you do?" he asked Charles. "And do _not_ say to give up on Pietro, cuz I ain't gonna." 

Charles sighed again, long and slow, fingers drumming idly on his armrests. Logan recieved a fleeting impression-- not in direct words, more a feeling: _You're never satisfied until you have things exactly your way; are you, Wolverine?_

Logan laughed; a humorless bark of sound. " _You're_ one to talk." 

"I will try to use Cerebro to contact the boy," Charles offered, finally. "If I am able. I will tell him that he is wanted; that we will fight for him, if that's what he wants. I don't know what else I can offer you." 

Logan fixed intent animal eyes on his employer, his friend. "Would you?" he asked. "Fight for him?" 

Any link between their minds shuttered immediately. Charles had strong feelings on this matter, and didn't want Logan poking around in them. 

"Depending on the circumstances," he replied. A terribly unsatisfying and noncommittal response, but it was the best hope Logan had. At the very least, it might pinpoint him to Pietro's location.

"Alright," he said. "Alright I-- yeah. Thanks, Chuck." 

Charles nodded. Reached to pat Logan's hand, then seemed at a loss for anything else to say. Finally, he turned his chair and made for the door. 

When he pulled it open, they saw Hank standing in the hallway, dressed in nightwear and just raising a fist to knock. 

"Oh," he blinked at Charles, and stepped aside. "Pardon the interruption." 

"Not at all." Charles offered a stiff smile. "I was just leaving. Goodnight, professor." 

"Goodnight." 

He and Logan together watched Charles traverse the hallway for the elevator in silence. Then, still in the doorway, Hank asked, "May I come in?" 

Logan nodded. "Keep the light off, though." 

Hank did not have difficulty seeing in the dark. In fact, his eyes had a slight, animal-like glow to them in this lighting. Logan found it oddly comforting as he shut the door and approached. Before he could wonder whether to sit, Logan tucked his legs underneath himself, scooting back to make room. He patted the mattress invitingly. 

Hank sat beside him, still keeping space between their legs. Logan grunted, dissatisfied. Taking Hank's wrist, he lifted his arm to make room for himself, pressing to his side. He wrapped Hank's arm around himself like a thick scarf and leaned his head against the fuzzy chest. 

"Today was real bad, Bigfoot," he said quietly, breathing in his comforting scent. With Hank's strong heartbeat sounding in his ears, Logan finally felt safe enough to succumb to his exhaustion. 

"Yes," Hank agreed. He touched Logan's cheek, running a careful knuckle along the bone. "That was... That was true hell." 

Logan remembered how Hank's expression had shut down when he found Logan fused to the Jeep; immobile and rasping, trying to curl in on himself but unable to do even that much. He'd stayed beside Logan and held his hand and not said a word; not when Kitty pulled him free; not as his skin began to knit back together. 

"Sorry you had to see that, Bigfoot," Logan whispered into Hank's chest. And he _was_ sorry-- truly. "Thank you for everythin'. For bein' so strong." 

Rumbling a low growl, Hank took Logan by the waist and maneuvered him into his lap, arms tight as a vice around his partner's chest. He buried his face in Logan's hair, and Logan realized that he was trembling, if only slightly. 

"I've never been so frightened in my life, driving to your home and seeing all the smoke, the ash. I was so certain..." Hank's voice broke. Logan stroked the fur of his arms; scratched his nails just behind Hank's ear until he pressed his weary face into Logan's hands. "I want to crush him in my jaws," the Beast confessed, voice a deep growl that vibrated in Logan's chest. "I want to rip him to pieces." 

"Trust me. The feeling's mutual, Bub," Logan agreed. Perhaps they were both a little beastly, but it was a comfort to know that he and Hank were on the same page. He felt understood, and loved. "But you've said it yourself, remember? We have to do this the _right way._ For Pietro's sake, if nothing else." 

Hank grunted, dissatisfied but accepting, and slowly fell back on the bed with Logan still cradled in his arms. 

Logan made himself comfortable on Hank's chest, reaching for his quilt and drawing it over them both. With anyone else, he'd fear crushing them under his weight, but he knew Hank was strong enough to support him. It was only when Hank swept a thumb under Logan's eye that he became aware he was still crying; if only sluggishly. He tried to laugh it off. 

"Sorry. Been doin' that all day. I think my cryer's broken. Can't seem to stop." 

Hank shook his head. "Don't apologize. 'To weep is to make less the depth of grief.'" As Logan processed the quote, Hank sourced helpfully, "King Henry VI." 

Logan snorted, his heart lightening just enough to breathe again. "Trust me to fall for the biggest nerd on the east coast," he snarked, and in the dark he saw the white flash of Hank's smile. 

As they settled in for the night, Logan again felt his mind begin to race. Would Magneto even know that Pietro preferred the strawberry-flavored nutrition shakes to chocolate? That he secretly craved company when he was kept awake by insomnia? Did he know that caffeine made Pietro irritable, or that once he got an idea in his head it was damn near impossible to talk him out of it, so it was best to just hang on for the ride? 

Did Magneto know how to care for the boy who pretended he needed nobody? 

Logan wondered, and he worried, and could come up with no comforting answers. But Hank’s chest rose and fell beneath him, and his heart beat steady and strong in his ears, and he felt, for the first time that night, a faint ray of hope. 

* * *

Sabertooth seemed to find this entire situation highly amusing indeed.

"Your bed is ready, highness," he bowed sarcastically, gesturing to the threadbare sofa he'd tossed a pillow and some blankets onto. 

Pietro ignored him. He wasn't great at sleeping at the best of times. He certainly didn't feel like doing it now, no matter how late it was.

The abandoned house just beyond the Canadian border was terribly drafty, with thin walls that rattled noisily whenever a freight train passed (which happened roughly every ninety minutes). Despite being well into the spring season, Pietro wished he had a jacket. Still, he wouldn't give Sabertooth the satisfaction of seeing him bundle into the blankets provided. 

Pietro's father sat at a card table halfway between the tile-floored kitchenette and the gray-carpeted living room. Due to all the surrounding lamps, the table was the brightest area in the dim little house. 

Magneto's focus was on the paperwork spilled out before him, but based on the way he occasionally winced and held his injured arm or nursed a glass of amber whiskey, it was paining him something fierce despite the splint and sling he wore. 

He'd been ignoring both his son and Victor for hours as he worked. 

Pietro was now seventeen-- very nearly a man. He knew who loved him; who his family really was. He'd broken his promise with his sister, that the two of them would protect their new little family at all costs. This was his punishment, and he knew he deserved every guilt-drenched moment of it. 

Sensing that he was being watched, Magneto at last looked up from his work to his son's stony face. He considered, then extended a hand. "Come here, myszko," he said, and Pietro told himself not to crumble at the rare endearment; to not feel an ounce of hope for affection, for love. He told himself to be sharp and numb. 

He still didn't dare disobey a direct order, however. He approached, and then remained very still. 

Magneto clasped his good hand on Pietro's shoulder and Pietro felt himself freeze inside and out. He turned his head slowly to give that hand the iciest, most cutting stare of his life. 

" _Oooh,_ " Sabertooth mocked, from his corner where he picked at his claws with a knife. "Sometimes it's hard to tell the squirt is yours, boss, but with _that_ face-- Oh, I can see it now." 

Magneto withdrew his hold, letting his hand fall back to his side, but continued to study his son. "You are angry with me," he observed. 

Pietro said nothing. 

"Was it the house? Whatever was destroyed can be repurchased." 

Pietro remained quiet. 

Dangerously soft now, Magneto asked, "Was it the Avalanche?" 

Pietro couldn't help it: A muscle ticked in his jaw. 

"I confess to losing my temper," Magneto said smoothly. "After all that I've done for him; all that I've made him into--" 

"Don't," Pietro snapped. 

There was a rustle as Sabertooth shifted his weight, staring unabashed at the two as though they were the most interesting program on television. 

Irritation clouded Magneto's neutral expression. "If you're going to be difficult, at least be useful. There's some boxes in the attic I've been meaning to ask you to sort through." 

Pietro cocked his head. "Boxes?" 

"You and your sister's belongings. I imagine most of it is junk. Children's things. But if we are all to be living together again..." 

Oh, Pietro had been afraid of that. Wanda was, hopefully, safe at Xavier's and therefore well out of her father's reach. But if Magneto demanded Pietro fetch her; if he even suspected his son was strong enough to carry people while running... 

Trying not to let any of this show on his face, Pietro nodded stiffly and turned for the short hallway that bridged kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. The worn floor creaked under his feet as he stretched and pushed a panel on the ceiling aside, revealing a thin wooden ladder, which he dragged down and began to climb. 

"Hell, boss," Sabertooth chuckled behind him. "You know, I think there was a time Junior over there would'a done just about anything to make you happy." 

"Are you saying he wouldn't _now_?" 

If Victor was stupid enough to reply to such a loaded question, Pietro was too far away to hear it. 

The attic was dim and dusty enough to make Pietro sneeze; the ceiling so low he had to crouch as he made for the stack of a dozen or so packing boxes against the far wall. Sitting cross-legged on the floor and wincing as splinters dug into his jeans, he pushed through them all until he found several marked only "PM" and "WM." 

Too stubborn to go back down for a knife, he wrecked his fingernails slicing through the parcel tape and busied himself with the contents within. It was better than doing nothing but stress out all night. 

The first few contained bedding and clothes-- some of which Pietro remembered; some he didn't. He carefully re-folded the cotton dress he dimly recalled Wanda wearing when she sprained her ankle falling from a cherry tree. 

These clothes were worthless now, he told himself. The hairclips and cowboy boots and little blue socks, the sweater patterned with ducks and alligators... He'd get rid of them straight away. No need to feel nostalgic. 

The second box proved more lucrative: a lamp, several cups and plates; a thermos from a lunch box. There were books-- picture books and chapter books alike, some in Polish, some in English. And, at the very bottom... 

Oh. 

Pietro held the old, framed photograph in both hands, studying the young woman with her long, frizzy black hair. Her mouth turned up at the corner in the tiniest of smiles. 

Funny. He'd almost forgotten what his mother looked like. 

It was while he examined the photograph, slipping it from its frame to see if anything was written on the back, when something in his head... _Clicked._ There was a rush of fuzzy sensation similar to radio static, and then-- 

**Pietro?** A familiar voice rang in his skull, too deep, too _present_ to be any figment of his imagination. 

Pietro jumped, eyes racing around the empty attic, trying to find its source. There was nothing to see but boxes and dust. 

"Professor X?" he asked, frowning. "What's going on?" 

**There's no need to speak aloud. I can hear your thoughts.**

Well, great. That wasn't creepy at all. 

**Pietro, I need you to tell me--** Charles began, but Pietro was too quick. He pounced on the opportunity while he still could: 

_Is Fred alive? Is Lance? What about the old man?! Talk to me, professor!_


	24. Integration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our house... in the middle of the street!

Pietro pulled the can of cheap body spray from his pocket and spritzed himself liberally, wincing at the foul stink that coated him as he focused on his underarms, his throat, his wrists and thighs. It'd be hell scraping this stench off later, but he couldn't risk Logan's excellent nose detecting him. This seemed the easiest solution.

Then he tucked the oversized hood over his head, concealing his overall shape as well as his telltale hair, and zipped across the street to the large and bustling Bayville hospital. 

Bypassing security at his speed was nothing; he simply hopped over the receptionist's desk while her attention was focused on cleaning a coffee spill, and helped himself to her computerized records. 'Alvers, L' had apparently been moved out of the ICU and into a general ward, which was a fantastic sign. 

Noting the room number, Pietro left the entryway and made for the stairs, walking quickly and purposefully, making no eye contact with patients or visitors or staff. As long as one acted like they belonged somewhere, people usually assumed it to be so. Even a smelly teenager in an ugly hoodie didn't draw too much attention. 

He passed the maternity and psych wards, and climbed the stairs at Quicksilver-speed, navigating the complicated twists and turns of generically tiled, fluorescently lit hallways, slightly grossed out by the persistent smell of bleach and desperation. 

The enclosed, windowless space in all its clinical glory was making him feel a bit touchy, but he pressed on until he found the room in question; not bothering to knock, just shoving open the door. 

It looked much like the rest of the hospital, with an elevated bed, a series of medical machines, a potted plant, a separate bathroom, and a television. Opposite the window was a whiteboard, where nurses and doctors recorded times; medications; notes. 

And dozing lightly in the bed was Lance. 

Charles had said Lance was alive, and Pietro had believed him, in theory. But there was believing and then there was _seeing,_ and the latter made Pietro's knees go a little weak. 

He was propped up by specialty pillows and a neck brace, a good majority of his face bandaged into obscurity. His body was tucked under a scratchy-looking blanket, and the sound of his breathing was masked by the humming and beeping of the machines all around him. But his chest rose and fell, and that was all that mattered. 

"Who is it?" Lance asked, groggy. "Sorry, I-- I can't turn my head very well." 

Pietro contemplated turning around; leaving without saying a word. He'd found out what he needed to know, so there was no need to stick around and confuse matters. 

Yes, he could leave. His brain told him that he should. 

His heart didn't want to listen. 

"It's me," he said. His voice was a near-inaudible rasp. He licked his dry lips, cleared his throat, and tried again: "It's Tro." 

Lance's entire body jerked. He attempted to roll onto his side, then stopped, a high, doglike whine eking between clenched teeth. " _Fuck._ " 

"Hey, quit that, rockbrains," Pietro snapped, closing the door and crossing the room in three strides. "Don't make it worse. I'm right here." 

Standing at the foot of the bed, Pietro saw that only half of Lance's face was bandaged. His right eye was unobscured, and he stared at Pietro, pupil blown out huge against his dark iris. The two regarded one another for a long moment. 

"Hi," Lance said dumbly, his voice very small. 

"Hey." Pietro shook his hood off and tried not to think about how frizzy his hair must be. His sneakers squeaked on the shiny floor as he turned and sat, gingerly, on the foot of the bed, feeling Lance's ankle press to his hip through the blanket. "What's the verdict, Lancevelanche?" 

"Huh?" 

Lance was still staring at him as though he were a triple-decker sandwich presented after a month of starvation. Meds always made him loopy as hell. Pietro resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

"The _verdict._ What ails you, fair traveler? What is your tally of wounds? Do you need a brain transplant? A spine-dectomy? Is this gonna be like that one movie where Nicholas Cage swaps faces with John Travolta?" 

"I want a new face. This one hurts." 

"Fine, I'll go get you one. Not John Travolta's, though. He doesn't do it for me." 

Lance released a bark of laughter that had his hand flying to his chest. "Ow. Don't make me laugh, P." He massaged his collarbone, his shoulder. 

The guilt Pietro had been holding at bay knocked at his subconscious. He pushed it away, trying to bottle it as he did all feelings too much to handle. "Does that hurt?" Pietro pointed to his shoulder. 

"Mm." Lance shifted against his neck brace. "It's a fractured scrabbe-- scrap--" 

"Scapula," Pietro supplied. "That's your shoulderblade." It made sense, considering how fast Lance had collided with the tree. 

"Yeah, that." 

"What else?" 

"My brain is bruised." 

"You've had concussions before." It came with the territory of regularly quaking rocks onto his own damn head. 'Homo superior' indeed. 

"Yeah, but this one is like, _really_ bad bruising. I forget what they called it. And I've got metal in my face!" 

Pietro blinked at this. "Um. What?" 

"It's under my skin. It's so cool, dude, they like. _Designed_ it in a computer to match my other cheek and welded it special and _screwed it into the bone._ Todd's gonna think that's rad as shit. I guess my eyeball would have fallen out without it, or something." 

No wonder he was talking so funny; his face didn't know quite how to cope with this newcomer to his skeleton. The idiot was actually grinning, and Pietro worked hard to school his expression into anything other than naked horror. His father had crushed Lance's _face_. Lance was now permanently changed because of it... All due to Pietro. 

He'd known. He'd _known_ better than to pursue anything serious with this strange, soft boy. Lance deserved so much better than anything he had to offer. He-- 

A hand touched his. Lance's pinkie slid under Pietro's, hooking through it and holding on tight. "You okay, P?" Lance asked gently. "You look like you wanna puke." 

Pietro did kind of want to puke. The urge to yank his hand back, to pull away, to run from all of this was enormous. It itched like insects underneath his legs. He forced himself to remain in place, but his piling anxieties had his leg jiggling hard enough to vibrate the bed. 

"What _happened,_ exactly?" Lance asked, and Pietro's heart skipped a beat. 

"The hell do you mean by that? My dad beaned you in the face with a car engine. That's not exactly the sort of thing you can forget." Pietro attempted to sound flippant; devil-may-care. Pietro did not succeed. 

Lance blinked, thinking this over. "Yeah, that makes sense. I kinda remember him showing up. Is everybody okay? Freddie--" 

_Hell_. Sure, short-term amnesia was common with serious head injuries, but... "Everyone is fine, 'cept you. Even the damn cat got out." He could trust what Charles Xavier had to say _that_ much, at least. "What else do you remember?" 

Lance thought his answer over carefully. "We had your birthday lunch." He thought some more, and a huge, dopey grin stretched half his face. "You _kissed_ me..."

Definitely not good. If Lance couldn't remember what, exactly, he'd done wrong, who was to say he wouldn't do it again someday? He'd barely survived the first round. 

"Right." Pietro said decisively, holding three fingers up and ticking them off as he spoke. "Mistake number one: You pulled me away from him; tried to run. Mistake number two: you held onto me. And the worst mistake of all? You got between me and my father." 

Lance rested back against his pillows, clearly fatigued. Pietro felt bad for straining his recovering brain with this apparently new information, but it was vital that he hammer in the seriousness of what had happened as soon as possible. 

"Those don't sound like mistakes to me," Lance said, quiet, but firm in conviction. Pietro tried to pull his hand away, but Lance held on tightly, lacing their fingers just as he had when the house had collapsed. "No, listen!" he insisted, before Pietro could interrupt. "The only thing I regret is not acting faster. Not fighting harder. I don't want you around him anymore, P. He hurts you." 

"Oh, he does _not._ Don't be dumb." Magneto had never raised a hand against his children. He could scarcely stand to touch them at all, much less hit them or shake them. He wasn't like Tabby's dad, or... 

"So why are you always in pain when he's around, then?" 

Pietro felt a little like he'd been slapped. It wasn't like that! The feelings he felt were his own problem; not his father's, not Lance's. He was a big boy. He could deal with it just fine without some dumbass hero stepping in. 

"We've gotten _way_ off topic here," he recovered. "My point is, don't do that shit, Alvers. Do not get between me and my father ever again. End of story."

Lance re-opened his good eye, focusing on Pietro's face, bleary but sincere. "No." 

"No?!" 

"I'm not gonna let him have you. Sorry. He's bad news, and he hurts you, and-- and just. _No,_ Pietro. You're my friend. You're my Brotherhood. You're my... Look, friends don't let friends get hurt by asshole bullies. Even if they _are_ blood. You've got a better family. Why are you holding onto this so hard?" 

Stubborn idiot. Did he want to go and get himself killed?! The job was already half done-- it wasn't like he'd be a difficult target for anybody to pick off now! What power did he think he had in this sterile little room? 

"Why are you _like_ this?" he asked weakly, and Lance chuckled. He tugged Pietro's hand, guiding the other boy to lean across the bed. 

"You know why," was all Lance said. He kissed Pietro's knuckles. Just the tiniest brush of skin on skin, and then he let him go. "At least, I hope you do. Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" 

Incredible. Even bandaged up like a mummy and dressed in the ugliest hospital gown known to man, Lance still managed to send Pietro's heart on a roller-coaster ride. 

"Tro?" Lance asked after a moment of silence. "I uh. I'm real glad you're here, but you smell really, _really_ bad right now. What the hell _is_ that?!" 

Pietro couldn't help but grin. "You don't like it? I thought it could be my new signature scent." 

Lance's fleeting expression of alarm had him biting his fist to keep from laughing his ass off. "Trust me, it's necessary. The old man would sniff me out in a heartbeat if I didn't take drastic measures, and I'm--" 

Perhaps explaining, _I'm actually in hiding and not supposed to be on this side of the border at all_ would be unwise. "I'm supposed to be at home," he finished lamely. Let Lance believe that 'home' for Pietro meant the X-mansion. Pietro wasn't going to correct him. No reason to tell him about the hellish reality of things. 

"Sneaking out again, huh?" 

"What can I say? I'm sneaky by nature." 

Lance attempted to shift, no doubt wanting to roll over onto one side or the other, but was restricted by his pillows, his machines. He grunted in annoyance. Trying to force the issue had him hissing in pain. 

"Stop! Just stop." Pietro stilled him with a hand on his chest. He did what he could, smoothing the blankets out and adjusting the pillows around him, but could tell Lance was feeling restless. How long until he was dosed with more meds? 

"This sucks," Lance complained nasally. "Everyone's treating me like I'm a giant baby. Did you know they had a _tube_ stuck up my--" 

Pietro gritted his teeth; resisted the urge to shout in Lance's face. _Actions have consequences, Avalanche! You were stupid with my dad, and so you got hurt! Don't do it again!_

They were going round and round in circles. It felt a little like losing Lance all over again, just as he had on New Years. Were they doomed to cycle like this forever, until one of them went crazy or died or started hating each other in earnest? 

_Something has to change. I have to break the cycle. I have to be the one to change something._

Pietro had to juggle what was best for all of them; himself, Lance, Wanda, the Brotherhood... Even the old man. What his stupid heart _wanted_ didn't factor into the equation at all; it was whatever option kept them all safest that mattered most. 

The voices and foot-traffic in the hallway were getting louder. Hospital business was picking up speed as the morning wore on. Pietro knew he was running out of time before someone-- a nurse or Scott Summers or even Logan himself-- came in to check on Lance. He couldn't be caught here without causing a big scene. 

"You're gonna go, aren't you?" Lance realized gloomily, recognizing the look in Pietro's eyes. "You're _always_ leaving. I feel like I'm trying to hold onto smoke." 

He sounded so bummed out that Pietro almost went back on all of his convictions right then; _almost_ promised to stay. To allow himself to be caught, and damn the consequences. _One of you has to be the sane one, Maximoff,_ he reminded himself reluctantly. _You can't both lose your heads._

Bending over Lance, he met his eyes before slowly and deliberately kissing Lance's good cheek. He lingered for a moment, breathing him in and gathering his strength. "Whatever I do next," he promised. "Whatever happens, just trust me to do right by you, okay?" 

Lance's brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you--" 

Voices approached, ever closer. The doorhandle clicked as it started to turn. 

In the space of a single heartbeat, Quicksilver bounded across the room and forced the reluctant, dusty window open, taking the vertical path down the side of the building. He was careful to avoid all the other windows as he descended until all the world was a blur. 

Upon reaching the attic of Magneto and Sabetrooth's safehouse, Pietro calmly changed out of his hoodie, fixed a blank expression on his face, and reached for the ladder. He had work to do. 

* * *

Girls were very interesting. 

Wanda had always best liked the episodes of sitcoms that focused on female friendship; on 'girl power'; on makeovers and slumber parties and shopping trips and elderly escapades. It was a magic sort of world; completely disconnected from her reality. 

Yet now that she was faced with the real thing, she felt frozen. 

"That's Kitty," Fred muttered in her ear, nodding his head towards the petite, dark-haired teenager that could phase through walls. "She's real nice. An' that's Rahne. You'd like her; she can turn into a _wolf._ An' that's--" 

Wanda tried to pay attention to the identities of all the X-Men, but there were just too _many_ of them. She'd never been in a room full of so many peers before, and it was overwhelming, to say the least. She found herself pressing into Fred's side harder and harder, disappearing into his bulk the more people glanced her way. 

"Hey." Fred's huge hand ensconced her shoulder as he squeezed her close. "You're okay. Ain't nobody gonna hurt you. If anyone tried, I'd pulverize 'em." 

It wasn't so much that she feared being hurt; it was the fear of being _wrong_ that had her so stuck. Sitting wrong; eating wrong; talking wrong... She knew that she was weird. Lance had told her so. But Lance _liked_ her weirdness. What if these other people didn't like her? What if she didn't know how to be like all those pretty girls clustered together with their messy hair and pajama bottoms? 

"I want to go back to our room now," Wanda said quietly so that only Fred could hear her. "Can't we eat in there instead?" 

Charles had offered to give them their own rooms. The mansion was large enough that they didn't _need_ to cram four teens and a cat into a single space. They'd all flatly refused, and Wanda was deeply grateful. She _knew_ Fred, Todd, and Kurt. She needed their familiarity and stability. 

Fred frowned, and shifted so that his arm was wrapped around her shoulders as he turned her towards the buffet of breakfast foods. "How's about we give it five minutes?" he encouraged. "If you still don't like it, then we can go back. Promise." 

He'd never broken a promise to her before. Wanda trusted Fred.

Still holding tight to his arm, she followed his lead, intending to fill a plate with breakfast in the crowded, noisy kitchen. 

"Miss Maximoff?" the soft male voice just behind had her jumping, palms filling with sparks. The pan of eggs on the stove rattled, and Fred was quick to grab it before it overturned. Wanda faced a tall boy in very tidy clothes, a pair of distractingly bright red sunglasses obscuring his eyes. She blinked owlishly at him, tongue-tied. 

"Oh, wow," the young man observed, and though she couldn't see his eyes, Wanda knew he was looking her over curiously. "You, uh. You _do_ look like your family. Hi. I'm Scott Summers. I'm sort of the head of students around here, and I just wanted to offer a warm welc--" 

This time, it was the bottle of orange juice that fell sideways on the counter, compressing as though squeezed by a fist. Fred didn't catch it in time, and it glugged wetly over the floor. 

"You're makin' her nervous, Summers," Fred grouched, righting the bottle but leaving the mess. "Knock it off." 

Scott looked dismayed. "How am I 'making her nervous'? I'm just introducing myself. I'm Kurt's best friend, and she's wearing _my_ pants." 

Was she? She'd dressed herself in clothes from the closet, while Todd borrowed Kurt's things. Poor Fred was stuck in the torn outfit he'd been buried in the night before, as there was nothing to fit him here. The few things that could be salvaged from the remains of their house were currently in the wash. Wanda tried not to think about her beloved little bedroom; her lava lamps and her books and her squishy toy cats, all gone forever... 

"Watch out!" Scott barked, grabbing her by the shoulder and yanking her against his chest as the stovetop burst into flame; all the gas canisters having ignited at once. The pans of bacon and eggs went up in billious black smoke, and the fire alarm began to shrill. 

Without thinking, Wanda hurled Scott across the room and over the table with all the force of her powers, sending plates and glasses scattering every which way; all the screaming students falling from their chairs. Before he could slam into the far wall, a redheaded girl surged upright. She extended her hands before her and, although nothing visible happened, the very air seemed to shiver and congeal. Scott was cradled by nothing; held aloft in midair before being harmlessly lowered to the ground. 

"Thanks, Jeannie," he mumbled, adjusting his glasses. 

The students that had been staring at him turned to gawk instead at Wanda and the spreading flames just behind her, warping the mantle and blackening the backsplash in a stinking reek of melted plastic. 

A boy hopped to his feet, hands up, and seemed to draw the very moisture from the air to crystalize as ice in his palms. He pushed past Wanda on his way into the kitchen and directed his gift at the fire with all the calmness of a well-trained soldier. 

The many pairs of eyes burning into Wanda were starting to make her twitch and itch and crawl inside; causing the tiles of the floor rattle and the sparks to snap and crackle from her fingertips. 

Affecting a bored expression, Todd tipped his chair back on two legs and crossed his ankles on the now-empty breakfast table. "A'right, yo," he said loudly over the fire alarm, munching and talking around the sausage he'd snagged with his prehensile tongue. "Damage control. Here's the ground rules when it comes to Babycakes. Rule number one: No touch-ey without ask-ey. Keep your hands an' feet an' other miscellaneous appendages inside the moving vehicle at all times--"

"Wanda..." Fred nervously sidled her way, looking as though he didn't know whether to scold her or hug her or send her packing. Wanda didn't give him the chance to decide. Turning on her heel, she sprinted out of the kitchen and towards the nearest door; a sliding glass specimen through which morning sunlight softly glowed. 

The grounds outside were almost as massive as the mansion itself. The bigness of the world around her made Wanda's lungs feel tight. How could people live on an earth so endless without getting lost? 

_Do you want to be back in your box?! Because that is where they will put you if you cannot be like them!_

They'd already proved that they could overpower her if they worked together as a group. That didn't mean she'd make it easy for them. She'd fight them off claw and fang before she ever allowed herself to be locked up again. She'd-- 

At one of the many water fountains outside knelt a girl with a huge paper bag propped up against her side. As Wanda stilled to watch her, the girl stuffed a gloved hand into the bag and grabbed a fistful of powder, dumping it into the burbling water. She gave it a little stir with a long wooden stick, waited a minute, and then dipped what looked like a thermometer into the water. The results apparently pleased her, because she stood up and painstakingly began dragging the heavy bag over to the next water feature that lined the path. 

When she did, the sunlight making her dark hair glow a warm auburn, Wanda recognized her as Rogue, the girl who worked at the makeup store at the mall. The girl who had done that... that _thing_ to her the day before; the thing that had drained her and made her sleep for almost twelve hours straight. 

Not wanting to be caught and weakened again, Wanda looked around for an escape route. There were plenty of statues and trees to hide behind and, further back, the woods. She had only to run-- 

"I can hear you," Rogue said, without looking up from her fountain tending. She didn't sound combative, but that didn't mean anything. Father rarely sounded angry, either, yet he was always dangerous. 

"I'm just passing through," Wanda said, half-prepared to sprint. Rogue was kneeling and had her hands full. If Wanda ran, it would take Rogue several seconds to follow. That gave her a head start... 

At the sound of her voice, Rogue snapped around to look at her, surprise in her gray eyes. Whomever she'd expected to be there, Wanda wasn't it. "Oh, it's you!" 

Wanda said nothing, only quietly waited for some sort of emotional cue. She took in Rogue's all-black outfit: Tank-top and cargo pants and boots. Her bangs were clipped out of her face, and she wore no makeup aside from her ever-present purple lipstick. Her gloves were not fashionable, but rather large canvas gardening-gloves meant to protect her skin. 

"How are you feelin'?" Rogue asked. Wanda wasn't great at reading people's emotions, and Rogue was particularly inscrutable, but she thought she heard something like guilt in her voice. "I know sometimes I give people a headache." 

Wanda _had_ woken with a headache, actually, though Todd said it was probably from the soot and smoke she'd inhaled. A shower and a change of clothes had cleared up the worst of it. "I'm not compromised. I can hold my own in a fight." As long as Rogue didn't touch her again, anyway. 

Rogue, still kneeling, shook her head. "I don't wanna fight you." 

"So why _did_ you, then?" 

"You hurt the professor!" 

Oh, she had _not._ She'd shoved his chair, certainly, but she'd not harmed the man himself. And anyway... "Charles Xavier is not a good man." 

Her expectation for argument was unmet. Rogue merely blinked at her, then resumed her activities as though the girl before her was no threat at all. Despite herself, Wanda's curiosity was piqued. "What are you doing?" 

Rogue added another handful of the powder to the bubbling fountain, stirring away and waiting for it to dissolve. "My chores. Every three months, gotta make sure no mold grows in the pumps. I like to do my stuff while everyone's at breakfast, so's I got time to be alone." 

Ever so cautiously, Wanda approached. Rogue didn't flinch or watch her or make any other move, so Wanda stood as close as she dared and watched the other girl dip her meter in the water. When the reading satisfied her, she re-pocketed it, stood, and began dragging the bag once more. It wasn't that it was too heavy for her, Wanda saw-- she was quite strong; the muscles of her back bunching with effort-- it was the bulky, awkward _size_ of the thing. 

After some consideration, Wanda took hold of the opposite side, pulling it backwards as Rogue nudged it forward. 

"As payment," she explained, when an eyebrow was quirked at her. "You value your time alone, and I'm infringing upon that." 

Rogue regarded her a moment, giving Wanda time to look at her properly; her thick brows and cleft chin, at the startling dove-white of her bangs in stark contrast to her cinnamon hair. She was strong-featured. There was a lot to see. 

When the fire alarms at the school at last fell silent, Rogue gave a shrug and resumed pushing her bag. 

"What happened in there? Did someone say Lance's name and make Sam explode with joy again?" she asked, with a slant to one side of her mouth that made Wanda think of Pietro's half-smiles. The question stumped her. 

"Who is Sam, and why does Lance make them explosive?" 

Rogue's slanted half-smile turned up on the other end, too, complete for only a brief moment until it fell away again like it was just too heavy to wear for long. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. They're always pullin' some shade of nonsense in there." 

The muscles in her pale shoulders bunched and contracted as she set the bag down in front of the next fountain, using the dry end of her wooden stick to stir through the dun-colored granules that glinted in the morning light. Wanda watched with great interest, noticing the way Rogue's skin was turning a little pink from the sun. 

"You speak like Fred does," Wanda observed. 

That cleft chin jerked up as Rogue fixed Wanda with an offended glare. "I do _not,_ " she snapped, accent thicker than ever. "That boy is pure Georgia beef. You don't see _me_ putting mayonnaise in my bananas foster, do you?!" 

Wanda actually _had_ combined bananas and mayonnaise once, though it had been her own idea; not Fred's. She didn't see what that had to do with the way Rogue and Fred both dropped their consonants, elongated their vowels, and softly slurred words. 

"If you aren't from Georgia, then where _are_ you from?" 

Rogue again dipped her hand into the bag of powder, tossing a careless handful into the fountain. "You ask a lot of questions," she said, which wasn't an answer at all. 

"Logan said I could ask all the questions I want. That a question never hurt anybody." 

Rogue peeked at Wanda again. Her eyes really were the gray of a sky about to pour down rain. Wanda remembered being little; remembered sneaking out the window in her nightgown to dance barefoot in a downpour. The way the sky exploded in white light and the wind whipped the very branches from the trees had made her feel like pure, breathing electricity. 

"I guess I owe you answers," Rogue conceded. "After what I took from you yesterday. I'm a swamp girl. Ain't no life without your boots sunk in muck an' a gator in your bathtub. How can you even know you're home without mushrooms growing in the drywall?" 

Wanda thought she liked the way Rogue talked even more than the answers themselves. She wanted to ask her a thousand questions, just to hear the way her tongue cradled the words, seasoning them before throwing them back out like arrows. "What did you take from me yesterday?"

Rogue looked alarmed. "They didn't tell you?" 

Wanda had to assume she referred to Fred and Todd. "They... Did, a little," she admitted, wondering where her panic had gone; where the urge to run until she could never be found had wandered off to. Her desire to talk to this girl outweighed her need to go. "They said that... You can borrow powers, by touching people." 

"An' that's _all_ they told you?" Rogue's face scrunched, possibly in displeasure. "So typical of them to leave me with the hard stuff." 

"Hard... Stuff?" 

Rogue didn't bother stirring or testing this round of water purification. She just dumped in another a handful of powder and then flopped beside the fountain, resting her back against its concrete base. 

"When I touch people," Rogue said, and dug a small depression in the dirt with the heel of her boot. "When I... See, I absorb things through skin contact. Power. Strength. Energy." she paused and risked a glance Wanda's way. "Memories. Hell; maybe I'm just rippin' chunks of life right out of y'all." Her face was neutral, but her tone was bitter, and when Wanda looked down at her gloved hands, she saw how the other girl clenched the grass, like she wanted to rip that up, too. 

"Okay..." said Wanda, slowly. "So. You took my memories?" 

"Not all of 'em. Flashes. Bits an' pieces. I saw a white room... I saw myself-- but it was you, always you-- in the mirror, gettin' older an' older like Rapunzel, trapped forever in her tower. It's been drivin' me bananas tryin' to understand, an' the professor ain't telling me squat." 

Wanda wondered if she was meant to be offended to have this girl first steal her memories and then interrogate her about them. And perhaps she would, later. For the moment, she felt only a cool, settling numbness. Careful as ever, she folded her legs and sat on the grass; close, but not close enough to reach. 

"I spent most of my life in a mental institution built and staffed by my father," Wanda acknowledged. "I was their only patient. Its only purpose was to contain me." 

Rogue's eyes narrowed as she processed this. "Jesus," she whistled between her teeth. "That guy is seriously twisted. I'm surprised you're doing as well as you are, after all that." 

Now it was Wanda's turn to smile without any happiness. "I'm not doing well. I just set the kitchen on fire when Scott Summers touched my shoulder." 

Rogue didn't flinch away; didn't look angry or disgusted or impressed or anything of the sort. "Accidents happen," she shrugged. "We're mutants. We cope. Sometimes, we cope badly." 

Wanda absorbed her words, absently trailing her palm over the patch of lawn she sat on. This grass wasn't like the grass Wanda was used to; here, it was all the same shade of green, all the same length in height, as soft as Fluffer's belly fur. 

"I got other things," Rogue continued. "Ideas. Impressions. One's been bugging me, so I'm just goinna go ahead an' ask. You're thinkin' about going after your brother, aren't you?" 

Wanda startled away from Rogue, pulling her legs up to her chest, narrowing her eyes; feeling like Fluffernutter when confronted by the hated vacuum cleaner. Rogue could not stop her. _Nobody_ would stop her. 

But Rogue didn't reach for her; didn't try to touch or trap her in any way. She only sighed, long and slow, and tilted her head back to gaze up at the sky. "I thought so." 

"I am the oldest," Wanda insisted, gesturing with her hands to try and explain; to get across the necessity of her actions. "Mother _said_ I must keep him safe after she was gone. He was always so small and afraid..." Afraid of goats. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of father's silences, and of his moods. 

"I know," Rogue agreed mildly, still watching the clouds. "I saw. I just wonder what you plan to do." 

Wanda had wondered the same thing herself, upon waking that morning. She knew how to ride a bus, but she didn't know where to go. She knew how to fight, but didn't know if she would ever win. 

"Could you hurt him?" Rogue asked. "I mean, _really_ hurt him? Your dad?" 

Wanda could. She knew it; knew that she had it in her both physically and mentally to do serious damage to the man who had created her. And perhaps that was a monstrous thing. All the television programs she'd been watching told her that violence was never the answer; that forgiveness was always necessary. But-- 

"I can't forgive father," Wanda said, and wondered if Rogue would think her wicked for it. "Even if Pietro does, again and again. Even if I believe that he did love us, once. Even though I can still find good memories of him inside myself, if I dig deeply enough. I just cannot forgive him, and I don't think I _want_ to." 

Rogue absently tapped the toes of her boots together as she listened. With her face still towards the sky she agreed, "Some things _are_ unforgivable. You're not bad, Wanda. You're doin' the best you can." 

And it was so simple, Rogue's words, but they unlaced something inside Wanda's chest; a pressure in her lungs so old and so constant she'd near forgotten it was even there at all. She sagged, then curled in on herself, pressing her face to her knees. Her eyes stung, but she did not cry. Not yet. And Rogue did not move any closer; did not try to touch. She allowed Wanda her private grief; a tiny, silent funeral for something that had once been good. 

When Wanda felt ready to uncurl, Rogue was still there. She paused her cloud-gazing long enough to look Wanda over. "Your blending needs some work," she pointed out, not unkindly. "Want me to do it for you? I've got about an hour before my shift starts." 

"Aren't you tired of makeup, having to do it at work all the time?" 

Rogue shrugged. "For most people, yeah. But I got the job 'cuz I like that stuff, even if retail does suck ass. Not the other way around." 

Well, that made sense. "Thank you for the offer," Wanda said politely. "But I have work to do right now." 

"Right; your rescue-and-vengeance mission. Before you go, though... I gotta tell you one thing." 

Well, Rogue wasn't making any effort to stop Wanda, so Wanda could hear her out. She sat up properly, breathing easier now that her brush with emotion had passed. 

"Your brother," Rogue said frankly. "Is an arrogant, beastly, flighty, _neurotic_ little brat." 

Wanda nodded. She knew that much. 

"And you're right. He _is_ scared. He's nothin' but fear all the time. He's scared, and uncertain, and he wants to be loved almost as much as he's frightened of it." 

Wanda, confused, frowned. Rogue's face was nothing but neutral honesty; she didn't speak out of malice or judgment, but true belief. "How can you know this?" 

"Oh, I've walked a mile in his shoes before." Rogue huffed a little laugh. "Actually, I ran them. I _ran_ many, many miles in his shoes. But I saw other things inside him, too. I saw a little boy always hanging back to let his big sister fight the monsters for him. I saw a kid, all alone, who didn't know where to go; how to be one instead of two. An' I saw a teenager learning at long, clumsy last, how to stand on his own two feet." 

Wanda felt like she almost understood what she was being told; she just had to wait for her brain to catch up with her heart. She cocked her head. "What are you saying, Rogue?" 

"I think, just this once, that you should give him a chance to prove himself. I think he needs it. I think _you_ need it. And if I were a betting woman, Wanda, I'd say he's gonna do you proud." 

This was a lot to digest. Was Rogue honestly saying Wanda should leave Pietro to face their father all on his own? That Wanda could trust him to actually do it and _succeed_? It went against everything Wanda stood for. _What would mama say...?_

Rogue stretched her legs out before her, arching her back like a big cat as she shifted and worked the kinks from her muscles. "You must be starving," she spoke through a yawn. "I got some junk in my room you can eat. Wanna keep me company while I get ready for work?" 

Wanda had never been in another girl's room before. Wanda had never seen what girls did when they got ready for work. Wanda had never had a girl to eat junk with. The temptation, the draw towards this taste of normalcy, was impossibly strong. 

_But Pietro..._

Rogue stood and offered Wanda a gloved hand. After a long hesitation, Wanda took it, and was easily pulled to her feet. She numbly followed the other girl towards the mansion. 

"Got a secret for ya," Rogue remarked casually, walking with squared shoulders and a powerful stride. "In the storybook of Quicksilver's life, he's _always_ read you as his knight in shining armor. That ain't ever gonna change, miss witch." 

* * *

Charles idly drummed his fingers on Cerebro's cool surface, feeling its lifelike and ever-present hum. He knew now, vaguely, where Magneto was hiding, but to give Logan coordinates would instigate yet another fight and drive Magneto further away; inspiring more firewalls, more defenses. Logan was too impulsive for his own good. 

"The boy is alive," Charles had reassured the distraught professor. "He is unharmed. He is eating. He is warm." 

Magneto would never _harm_ his children. Shut them away or leave them behind, perhaps, but to starve them? Beat them? He was not such a man. Then again, Charles would never have believed him capable of doing what he did to the Avalanche, either, and yet... 

Charles sighed and slipped Cerebro's domed covering over his head, sliding his eyes shut. He'd promised Logan he would check on Pietro every day, and Logan would never stop hounding him if he didn't make good on his word. 

He felt lifted to his full potential when synced with this marvelous, living technology. That he himself was but a conduit to stream all the mutant energies of the world to pour. It was so easy to lose himself in this flood of information flooding from all directions at once. He suspected that if he just reached a little harder; pushed himelf a little further, he'd shatter into pure energy and dissipate into the cosmos. A part of him was always hungry for more. 

_Focus, focus. We're looking for..._

And ah, there he was; a unique signature of thought that only Pietro Django Maximoff exuded. A thumbprint on the world that could be mistaken for none other. Even with Cerebro's aid, Charles could scarcely keep up with the teen's rapidfire stream-of-consciousness. 

**Pietro.**

_Ohshitthat's sofuckin' scary that's never gonna_ not _be scary can you please givesomewarning nexttime or--_

Well. Charles had fulfilled his promise. He'd checked on Pietro and found him alive. Forcing himself into the boy's head further would only upset him; would make him all the more reluctant to let Charles in the next time, and would serve no purpose. He knew what he needed to know. As courtesy he asked, **Are you holding up adequately?**

The bubble of hysterical laughter this produced was not wholly unexpected. The boy was stressed and frayed, held together by pins and prayers. _Oh yeah I'mjust fuckin' peachy it'sallwonderful all is dandy in castle Maximoff!_

Charles got a brief glimpse of the 'castle' through Pietro's eyes. He saw metallic scraps across a table; bottles of WD-40 and polishing rags. He saw blueprints... Tilting Pietro's head, Charles focused Pietro's eyes on said papers, grateful for the teenager's stellar vision as he quickly read the plans over. He used Pietro's hands to push the top blueprint aside and reach for the next. What sort of plans did Magneto have brewing now...? 

_STOP! GET OUT!_

Oh, he'd gone and frightened the boy after all. He felt Pietro clap his hands to his ears and close his eyes tight, regaining complete control over his body. _Out out out out out--_

People always became so touchy over such nothings. It wasn't as though Charles were _harming_ him. Honestly! 

**I'll be back tomorrow,** he promised, and severed their connection. 

Rather than remove himself from Cerebro's enhancing influence, Charles lingered a moment, his link with the safehouse tenuous now that he no longer had eyes to see it through; a body to feel its temperature and surfaces. He received signals from other nearby life forms; the snarled and darkened thoughts of Victor Creed, not even a full mile away-- so similar to Logan's thought patterns, and yet so different!-- and... 

And. 

_Oh._

So. Magneto wasn't wearing his helmet, after all. Perhaps he thought Canada was far enough away to be safe; or perhaps he was only relaxing. It was hard not to see such a slip as an open invitation. 

Charles felt his physical body shift in his chair as he debated from hundreds of miles away, whether to seize this rare opportunity. It could make things dangerous for Pietro, if Magneto felt his son had been compromised. But the _temptation--_

Sliding into Erik Lehnsherr's mind felt like slipping into a warm bath at the end of a hard day. Oh, the man himself wasn't warm; he was as cold and clinical as a morgue. But this was familiarity. This was comfort food. This was-- 

"Charles." 

Oh. To be detected so quickly? To be known so immediately? 

"Charles. I know that's you. Don't you dare play hide and seek with me." 

Perhaps if he held very, very still... 

"Charles Francis Xavier, I am not a patient man." 

He was sitting up, clutching the edge of a table-- how his arm ached; Charles felt it like a phantom pain in his own skin-- and had his chin high. Though Charles couldn't see his eyes, he knew they would be frosting blue rivulets of suspicion right about now. 

Well, if there was clearly no point in hiding-- **Good afternoon, old friend.**

Magneto sat back with a sigh and rubbed at his eyes. Charles felt it; Erik's headache brought on by drinking too much. Foolish. He should know better than to lean so heavily on whiskey for sleep. 

"Why are you here, Charles?" 

Best not to incriminate the boy. Logan would be furious. **I heard my Wolverine injured you. I was concerned.**

"Spare me your concern. I am healing fine." 

He wasn't. He'd had to stitch himself up by hand. He'd had to inject himself with antibiotics and feared it would not be enough. He wondered what would happen if his deep cuts became infected-- 

**Come home. I will treat you.**

"Your home is not my home." 

**You are sick. You are not eating well. You are not sleeping well. You drink too much. You are too old to be living on the run like this. Come home and rest.**

"I said I'm fine!" 

**You are not fine! The Erik Lehnsherr I know would never attack one of his own mutants the way you did your Avalanche. You are cracked, 'old man,' and you know it.**

Charles had seen through Tolanski's eyes, the full events of what had happened on the boarding house property. He knew the young mutant would be having nightmares for years about seeing his brother thrown like a doll; the Blob buried in rubble; his father-figure crushed in Magneto's iron fist. The little toad was handling the trauma as best he could, but it had taken a serious toll. 

"Wars are not won by sitting cozy in a mansion, Charles. If my health and sanity are destroyed, so be it. At least I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty." 

**Come home.**

"I will not." 

**Come _home._**

"So you can keep me like some sort of pet, warming your table and your bed? I'm no fool. I know your wards hate me. My own children hate me. I saw it in my son's eyes. These are sacrifices I am willing to make for my cause. I will rise, and I will be victorious. Why don't _you_ come home, to me, while you still can?" 

Something inside Charles ached at his words, at his absolute conviction. He felt raw; his own control over their connection tenuous. Perhaps his feelings were leaching through; concern and affection, possessiveness and history. Lovely and ugly and far too much. Why around this man alone he was a bleeding nerve, he couldn't say. 

"You miss me." 

There was no point in lying. **Constantly. You are the thorn in my side, the blister on my heel. The hole in my heart.**

Softer, now. And so good was it to know that Magneto was still capable of softness, no matter how small. "Come to me. At my side, you are a king. I've waited forever for you, Charles. I can wait a while more." 

The offer should not have been so tempting. 

Burrowing deeper into Magneto's mind, Charles was accepted easily as though into open arms. Magneto allowed him to look through his eyes, but not to control his limbs. He could feel his warmth, the thud of his heart, the endless sting of gouges that rent his skin. Magneto opened his mouth, and Charles felt the breath they-- _he_ \-- inhaled speak their-- _his_ \-- next words: "Be mine. Return my daughter to me. Care for me _here._ Fix me _here,_ if you're so determined to meddle." 

The temptation only grew. They could be together. Charles could fix all of the things that were broken inside the other man... 

It was nothing but a fantasy. Charles was too old to believe in fairy tales. **You are the one who left, old friend. I can no more come to you than I change the tides. If you will not save yourself, then at least save your son. Give him back to the family that loves him. Do what you know, in your heart, is right.**

The welling of ice-cold fury, of betrayal, that Erik felt at this took Charles' breath away. In a single moment he saw how Magneto was capable of slamming a car engine into a teenager's face: this amount of rage could not be contained in a single body. It spilled out of him, warping the furniture and threatening the very foundations of the house. 

_He is mad,_ Charles realized in true, dismayed horror, and felt his heart break. _Oh, my Erik._

When Erik spoke, though, he sounded quite collected; very much in control of himself. "I've had enough. I've tolerated you more than I should have." He held his hands out and, from nearby, his helmet was summoned to him. 

**Oh, please!** Charles lost all decorum to beg, so caught in the moment was he. **Please--**

"You are not welcome in my mind, old fool. And I will make sure that you never have access my son again. You've insulted me for the last time." 

**What does that mean, Erik?! What will you do to Pietro?**

The only answer Charles received was a cold, sharp slice; severing him from Erik completely as the helmet dropped down, barring him entirely and leaving him, agonizingly, alone in his head and his body. 

With trembling hands, Charles disconnected from Cerebro's circuits, and then bowed his head. Funny; he could not remember the last time he'd cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magneto, some hours later: Son, you smell.... different....  
> Pietro: This is just the NEW ME, DAD. Don't cramp my rebellious teenage individuality.  
> Magneto: ...  
> Magneto: Alrighty, then.  
> Sabertooth, choking on fumes: MAKE IT STOP.
> 
> ~~Wanda Maximoff watches the Golden Girls.~~


	25. Smashing Cages

With Kurt wound around him like a ribbon on a maypole, Todd watched the alarm clock tick, minute by achingly slow minute, closer to six in the morning. There were only four hours and thirty-seven minutes to go.

Thirty-six. 

Thirty-five. 

Thirty-four minutes until the alarm would ring, and then they could all get up, and have breakfast, and go about their day. He only had to hold out four hours and thirty-three minutes more until the lonely night would end. 

Kurt shifted in his sleep, ear twitching, nose snuffling. As though unconsciously aware of his boyfriend's torment, his arms and tail tightened around Todd's small body. 

In the bed across the room, Wanda slept silent and still as a statue. Todd had to keep peeking to ensure her belly was rising and falling with breaths as it should be; that she hadn't suddenly died in her sleep like his imagination kept whispering... 

He didn't have that problem with Fred. God _bless_ Freddie-bear; he snored loud enough to shake the ground. Todd had never been more grateful for his bro grounding him; keeping him sane. 

Every time Todd closed his eyes, he saw it again. The house: collapsed, with Fred buried right along with it. He saw Lance-- strong, brave Lanceman!-- thrown around like a helpless doll. His boyfriend had taken Wanda and disappeared. There was that absolute horror with Logan, and then he'd locked eyes with Pietro as Tro took his old man's hand... 

Everything he knew about the world had been crushed in a matter of moments; everyone he'd believed infallible had crumbled. What chance did a little toad have in a world like this? 

Todd held back tears; tears he didn't dare let fall during waking hours. He had to be strong. Lanceman was gone. Trobro was gone. That left Todd to be the boss now, right? 

His drowsy, itchy eyes fought him for control-- just a few hours of sleep; just a _minute_ \-- but there it was again: Pietro, arrogant and cocky Silver Balls himself, pleading on his knees for mercy... Who _knew_ what was happening to the poor guy now?! 

Kurt startled when Todd sat up with a drowning gasp. 

" _Was ist_ \--" The fur on Kurt's cheek was pressed flat from his pillow. 

"Gotta use the little boy's room," Todd forced a smile, and leaned in to kiss Kurt's fuzzy forehead even as he wriggled out of his hold. "Go back to sleep, 'Creepster." 

The gleam of Fluffernutter's eyes in the dark followed Todd as he tiptoed into the hallway and closed the door behind himself. 

Instead of heading for the bathroom just down the hall, Todd instead made for the stairway without daring to turn any lights on. He wasn't actively aware of his pupils expanding to take in any available light, but the red glow of his irises was brighter even than Fluffer's had been. 

He was careful to be silent as he climbed the stairs and counted doors, finding his target by pressing his ear to the wood for a moment. He didn't want to mistakenly burst in on Spyke's auntie in a sexy silk nightie, or whatever it was she wore to bed. To his relief, from the other side of the wood he heard low, male voices. He'd counted correctly, and better yet: the guy was awake.

He hesitated a second more, wondering whether to just go back to bed, but the thought of returning to that motionless hell of memories was enough to make him shiver. Better to be awake with company than "asleep" with only his own nightmares.

"Pops?" 

He spoke in a whisper, but the voices just beyond quieted immediately. 

"Come on in, Frogger." 

That was all the invitation Todd needed. He creaked the door open and tiptoed inside, looking around the decently-sized room that smelled of the forest and pricey tobacco. 

In the bed were Logan and professor Hank, both dressed in boxers and t-shirts. Logan was propped on Hank's chest, his eyes sore and red from crying. He was a mess; grizzled with beard and greasy without showering. He looked on the outside a Todd felt on the inside: haggard. 

The three sized each other up. Todd was skinny and awkward in pajama bottoms and a loose tank-top, shifting from foot to oversized foot in the doorway with his spotted arms crossed over himself. "S-sorry to bug ya. I just..." 

Just what? Everything he felt was so dumb, so useless. Here he was, a seasoned Brotherhood boy, getting freaked out over nothing! _Lance_ sure never got scared like this... 

"S'okay. C'mere." 

Logan reached a hand out, his fingers making a little grabby gesture, so Todd shuffled for the bed with his head hung low. 

"I can't sleep, pops," he confessed. "I keep seeing it all in my head, over an' over... It's gettin' real bad." 

There were those tears again. Cripes. Todd was too _big_ to cry like a baby. He was almost a grown-up, for crying out loud! 

Hank's big paw on his shoulder had him looking up, sure he was about to be scolded and sent away. "You've just been through a terrible trauma," the professor explained kindly. "This is perfectly normal. You did the right thing, seeking help." 

Cheese and crackers, there those tears went; rolling down Todd's cheeks like rain. He closed his eyes and croaked softly when a fuzzy thumb brushed them away. 

"Aw, _bub._ " Logan sat up in bed, taking Todd's arms and pulling him close. "Oh, hey. Hey, now. Shh..." 

Todd awkwardly climbed onto the bed, scooting over Hank's legs to kneel between the two other mutants as he was held and rocked, a heavy hand patting his back in a soothing rhythm. 

"I ain't been doing right by you kids," Logan confessed, shamed. "Got all tangled up in my own sads. I promise to be better, starting right now." 

"It's all good, yo!" Todd protested, voice climbing high. He tried to laugh it off. "It ain't no thing. I'm a big boy--" 

"It _is_ a thing. I'm here. I'm _here_ , Todd." 

Todd could do nothing; nothing but hold the sleeves of Logan's shirt and ride out the waves of grief threatening to drown him. Somehow, it was much more bearable with two life-boats on either side of him, keeping his head above water. 

"Okay, pops," he sniffled, still feeling a little pathetic. "Okay."

Hank's heavy paw rubbed slow, soothing circles between Todd's shoulderblades until it became easier to breathe. 

"Would you like to talk about it?" Hank asked. "What it is you're feeling?" 

Todd shrugged. "Scared, mostly. I'm... I couldn't do _anything._ I just had to _watch_ while all that stuff--" He trailed off. "Guess I really am useless." 

Without his bracelets, his wrists looked tiny and weak and scarred. Looking at them, he felt more ashamed than ever. 

"No." Logan's voice was sharp. "You ain't no such thing. You did a lot, Frogger. You made the right call, gettin' Wanda outta the line of fire. An' you knew exactly where to look for Freddie. You used your strengths, an' you got out in one piece, an' I'm _so_ proud of you." 

"Your family loves and needs you, Todd," Hank agreed, nodding. 

Todd hiccupped a laugh. These two were so in sync... "Y'all should just get married already." 

Logan's cheeks reddened, which only made Todd giggle harder. The guy was _how_ old, now, and still getting bashful over _that_? 

"Alright, you Chucklehead," Logan grumbled, and hooked an arm around Todd's neck, hauling him down and throwing the blanket over him. "We all need to catch some quick Z's. It's late. You staying?" 

"Aye aye, cap'n." For the first time in days, some of the crushing heaviness eased from Todd's heart. 

There was a general shifting of blankets and bodies until all were comfortable. Hank reached to turn off the lamp. Only then did Todd feel able to voice the concern weighing on his mind. "Can you do me a big favor an' not tell Lanceman I cried like this? Just give a little fib an' tell him I was brave." 

Logan regarded him with warm animal eyes, unblinking in the darkness. "We were all scared, Todd. I _will_ tell Lance you're brave. I'll be telling no 'fibs' when I do it." 

* * *

While Hank washed up in Logan's bathroom, Logan sat at his desk nervously tapping the business end of a ballpoint pen against a legal pad, occasionally scribbling down notes. 

"Six months? Really? That's-- we've already hit that. Uh. Nope; no contact from any birth parents." Aside from Magneto, anyway. "You're-- Court, huh? I'm... Could you email me those forms? Right. Thanks, Keisha. I owe you big. See you around." 

He hung up and studied his notes, a nervous flutter in his gut. This could change everything. He had to at least _try..._

Hank, transformed into an adorable blue puffball from the humidity of the shower, stepped from the bathroom and approached. "How's it going?" he asked, resting a paw on Logan's shoulder. 

Logan tipped back in his chair. "I'm scared," he admitted with a huffed laugh. "What if the kids don't wanna--" 

"You can only ask," Hank reminded him, and scritched gentle claws against Logan's scalp. "Let the kids know how you feel. I'm very proud of you." 

Logan's cheeks warmed. He wasn't surprised that loving the big guy was easy. He'd been doing it for years already, after all. But life had only gotten more rich since admitting it. Being able to seek out his support and offer affection without reservations felt like the most natural thing in the world. 

"Sometimes I worry I'll wake up, an' everything I have with you will have all just been a dream," he confessed. 

Hank paused, then took the back of Logan's chair, spinning it around so that they were face to face before crouching down to eye-level. 

"Logan Howlett," he said in his most stern, teacherly voice. "Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, but _never_ doubt I love." 

His face was so solemn. _Logan_ would have been the liar if he said that the quote, and the L-word, didn't give him a serious bout of the butterflies. 

He squeezed Hank's paw. "I'd never doubt you, Romeo. I know you've got my back. I just... Heck. I wish I had some fancy words to give _you._ How about, 'I will fill your teacup. With me, your cookie jar will never run empty'?" 

Hank snorted, an amused twinkle in his eyes, and lightly swatted Logan's arm. "Hamlet, actually. And that would be slightly more romantic if you cleaned up, just a little," he said pointedly. 

"Yeah, yeah." Logan squirmed out of his chair. "I know. Time to shower. Wait for me?" 

"Always." 

As he passed his bedroom window, Logan peered out and smirked when he saw a group of kids by the pool, which was still too cold to swim in. Todd was among the crowd, teasingly trying to push Fred into the water. He looked to be in much better spirits than the night before. 

"Kids bounce back fast," Logan observed. 

"Perhaps. You know as well as I do that nights are the hardest. It's easier to put on a brave face under morning's light." 

Logan conceded this point with a nod. "Very wise, Bigfoot." 

As he stepped into the bathroom, he saw Hank glancing at the notes from Logan's conversation with Keisha Morrow. "Six months..." he mused wonderingly. 

. 

Logan found Wanda and Rogue stationed on two adjoining beanbag chairs in the otherwise unoccupied theater room. Rather than take advantage of the massive screen, they were instead reading: Rogue, her homework, and Wanda, a novel. As Logan watched, Rogue crossed her legs. A moment later, Wanda copied the teen's new posture. 

Logan grinned. 

"Hey, gals," he greeted from the doorway, and both mutants twisted around to look at him. 

"You're all spiffed up," Rogue complimented. "Don't think I've ever seen you without a five o' clock shadow." 

"Give it ten minutes," Wanda replied, returning to her book. She must have raided Xavier's library already. Logan had noticed a stack of books beside the bed she'd commandeered from Scott. 

"Bigfoot an' I are gonna go get Rocky from the hospital," Logan explained. "If you see Toddles or Freddie, can you tell 'em to set up a bed for 'im in my room? He's gonna have medical equipment out the wazoo, so he's gonna need space. Electrical outlets." 

"Sure..." Rogue frowned. "That's really soon, isn't it? After everything that's happened?" 

Logan shrugged. "Modern medicine. Crazy, right?" And expensive. Logan didn't like to think about the years of debt this could have caused, were Xavier not footing the bill. His kids health was worth every cent, of course, but it was still a daunting thought. 

He made to leave, then paused, looking over the elder Maximoff twin. She was holding together pretty well, but he saw a weariness in her eyes, a restlessness to her muscles. She had worries on her mind, and he knew the traumatic loss of her brother had her rattled. She was dealing with it in the best way she knew how. 

"Does a hug sound okay, Sparkles?" Logan asked. 

Wanda didn't look up from her reading, but she nodded. Logan approached and bent to wrap his arms around her neck. Though she didn't respond, he knew she felt his love. He tilted his face to kiss the side of her head, then let go. 

When he saw that Rogue was watching them curiously, he offered the girl a smile. "What about you? Hug?" 

He was deeply surprised when she, too, nodded. As cautiously as possible he encircled her waist, careful not to touch skin, and gave a squeeze. Rogue closed her eyes. Poor touch-starved kids. He patted her back firmly. 

"Can you turn on the popcorn machine on your way out?" she asked, a hint of emotion just audible in her voice, so Logan shot her a cheeky salute and went to do just that, scooping kernels and flicking on the heat. 

"Don't let Wanda put any mayonnaise on it," Logan teasingly warned as the machine began to whir. 

"I would not try that again." Wanda turned a page in her novel. "It makes everything far too soggy." 

As he left the theater, Logan nearly tripped over Fluffernutter. The cat trotted around freely with his tail held high, acting as though he already owned the place. 

. 

He found Hank waiting for him in the parking garage. "My car or yours?" the other professor asked. It was exactly the sort of domestic question that made Logan smile. 

"Yours. Lower to the ground-- easier to stick Rocky in the back." 

They both climbed into Hank's ancient but well-maintained station wagon. Logan peered out the window at the husk of Lance's Jeep, having lost its passenger-side door. Logan had been too sad to examine it, but Scott was optimistic at the potential of fixing it. The engine itself was a ruin, but the transmission was intact. Some new parts, a hope and a prayer, and then _maybe..._

"Do you think he'll still want to drive it?" Hank asked, clipping on his seatbelt. "After what happened?" 

It was hard to imagine Lance without his beloved Jeep, but there was no telling how the kid might feel. "We can at least give him the option. He won't be driving for a few weeks anyway; not until the doc gives the all-clear." 

There was the other elephant in the room, of course. As Hank pulled from the parking garage, Logan leaned his cheek against the window and wondered how on earth to tell Lance about Pietro... 

The hospital was, as always, an overwhelming hassle between dealing with parking and signing in at the front desk. Ruffled, Logan tried not to fidget or snap at any employees just doing their jobs, but all the smells and lights and noises of the place were a lot for his senses to handle. Hank pressing against his side helped considerably. 

"We try to get Lance up and out of bed every three hours," said a smiling nurse. "It's good to get a patient moving as soon as possible after surgery. We take little walks together. He's doing great!" 

Logan would have preferred to hear all this from Lance himself. He stared at the elevator, wishing only to be on it... 

Hank sighed and reached for a visitor badge, clipping it onto Logan's shirt. "I'd like to hear more about Lance's treatment," Hank told the nurse kindly. "Logan just wants to see his son. Tell me-- did you mention something about physical therapy...?" 

The nurse offered an understanding smile, which was all the permission Logan needed to hustle for the elevator. He'd thank Bigfoot later. For now... 

He didn't _quite_ run to Lance's room, but it was a strong power-walk. He remembered exactly where to find it from his previous visit, and felt some of his anxiety ease when he caught Lance's scent, faint under all the other smells of the place. He tapped gently on the door before pushing it open. "Hey, kiddo." 

Lance was propped up in bed on a small mountain of pillows, his neck held in place by the medical brace he'd be taking home. He'd turned on the television on the opposite wall and, Logan was both surprised and amused to see, was watching the tail end of that day's episode of The Bold, Dark Edge of Life. 

"Did I convert you?" Logan asked with a grin, coming into the room. "Are you a TBDEL fanboy now?" 

Lance smirked. He'd lost some of the bandaging around his face, though there was still gauze taped over his sutures. The damaged portion of his face was quite puffy and bruised, but he was smiling with both sides now. It made Logan's heart hurt. "I bet you just watch it 'cuz you think Klaus is hot." 

Logan snorted. "Don't project, kid. He ain't my type-- not hairy enough. He's practically a beach ball." 

It was good to hear the kid laugh. A miracle, really. For a while there, Logan had thought he'd lost him. Lost him _forever._ It could have been so much worse than it was, and it was already far more dire than it should have been. He'd felt some sympathy for Magneto, before, though he disagreed with the man's methods. Logan knew more than most what all the man had been through. The guy needed help, not punishment. But to do this to Logan's _son?_

Logan could only forgive so much. 

_He'll never come near you again, kid,_ he vowed. _Not if I can do anything about it._

How much could he do, though? He'd never before felt so helpless, betrayed by the very bones he relied on for strength and invulnerability... 

"Dad?" Lance asked. "You okay?" He fidgeted with some clinking metal in his lap, and Lance saw that he'd been playing with the dog tags Logan had given him all those months ago. The chain had been damaged in the accident, but it could be fixed or replaced easily enough. 

"I'm just glad you're here," Logan said honestly. "Kids don't realize how bad they scare the old farts who love them when shit like this happens." 

They remained in silence for a time, both looking at the television without really watching it until the show went to commercial. Only then did Lance again glance his way. "I've been meaning to ask you... The year printed on these tags, just under your name..." 

Logan sighed. He knew what the tags said. "I'm old, kid. I'm really, _really_ old." 

"Oh." Lance's voice went a bit strained. "So you're-- I mean, it's just. _We're_ gonna get old. All of us." 

Logan felt the fist he tried so hard to ignore clamp around his heart, the way it always did when he himself thought too hard about that fact. Everybody-- Lance and Pietro and Wanda and Todd and Fred; Hank and Charles and Ororo and all the X-kids would continue to change and age and grow while Logan remained ever the same, steadfast and untouched by time. 

"It's normal to think about that stuff," he told Lance gruffly. "When people get hurt bad the way you did. You start thinkin' about life, an' dying. That's where all this came from, right? Are you scared?" 

It was easier to make this discussion be about Lance. For Lance, Logan could be Dad. For Lance, Logan had answers. 

Lance wasn't having it. He looked up, wincing at the strain to his neck, and met Logan's eyes. "I don't want to leave you all alone." 

_Oh, sweet boy..._

Logan shook his head, straightening and approaching. "That ain't your job. _I'm_ the dad. I do the worrying." 

"Then who will worry about _you_?" 

He wasn't going to let this go without a satisfactory answer. Logan sat at the foot of Lance's hospital bed (it creaked under his heavy weight, but did not tip), and dropped a hand onto the teen's knee, trying to gather his thoughts. 

"There's always gonna be kids," Logan said slowly. "That need love. Family. And I... I can be that. I can be Dad Logan. And it's gonna hurt like hell, Rocky. It's gonna tear me apart, to see y'all grow up an'--" He stopped. His cryer was still a little broken; no need to re-start the waterworks that lingered too close to the surface. "But I can do that, again and again. An' I can build good memories, an' I can make you punks happy, an' safe. For however long I got on this earth, _that's_ what I want to do." 

When gifted, cursed, with this pseudo-immortality, what could one do with it? Logan supposed he would have to find out by himself, one day at a time. "I don't regret loving you, not for a second. Being your dad is an honor an' a privilege."

Logan smelled the salt of tears before he looked and saw them brimming in Lance's good eye. Ah, hell. This was pretty heavy stuff for a seventeen-year-old. Logan pasted on a smile and wrapped a gentle arm around Lance's waist, resting his chin on the kid's undamaged shoulder. "Don't think any more on it," he advised gruffly. "I'll be just fine." He tugged his tags from Lance's hand and carefully hung them back around the teen's neck, where they belonged. "Thank you for bein' my boy." 

Hank tapped on the frame of the door, and both men turned his way. Lance swore under his breath as he twinged his neck again. "Lance is checked out," Hank explained. "Logan, the three of us are supposed to talk with his surgeon about caring for his eye and sutures, but then we can head back." 

"Home?" Lance asked, expression brightening, and Logan sighed, hating to be the bearer of more bad news. 

"Xavier's. Our house is still, uh. Not a house." He'd really have to get his ass in gear, making plans with his kids regarding what they wanted to do about that. Let Xavier build them a new house? Stay where they were? Go house-hunting on their own? 

"Oh, right." Lance looked bummed out for only a moment before cheering up fast. "But I'll still get to see the guys and Wanda! I miss them. I'm surprised Tro didn't pester you into letting him come today."

Logan and Hank exchanged a glance. A quick one, but the teenager caught it anyway. The lopsided smile froze on his face. "What's that about?" he asked, a hint of suspicion creeping into his voice. 

Lance was heavily medicated, and recovering from injuries and surgery. Logan's instinct was to smooth the issue over. But he'd so carefully built up a relationship of trust with his charges, and there was simply no room for lies between them. "Now isn't the best time, Rocky," he hedged when he saw that Hank was going to leave this one up to him. "Maybe we should get to the car first--" 

Lance's large hand urgently seized his wrist, fingers overlapping. Drugged he may be, but stupid, he was not. 

"Dad, _where_ is Pietro?" 

* * *

Back at the Canadian safehouse, Pietro ignored Sabertooth's pathetic attempts at a bed and instead made himself at home in the attic, though it was dusty and splintery and creaked in the wind. 

He'd made himself a nest of blankets on the hardwood floor, surrounding the space with childhood knick-knacks like they were protective talismans. He'd covered the window with an old tarp, plugged in the lamp, and placed his mother's photograph beside his pillow for strength. 

Not a bad setup, all things considered. 

Tonight he slumped, paging through a book of fairy tales, touching the gilded pages that Wanda had once loved so much. She'd liked the frightening stories, with children that wandered in the woods, and the wolves that gobbled them up. Pietro preferred the softer ones where beleaguered princesses found their true love through a kiss or a shoe or a frog, and then lived happily ever after. 

The creaking of the ladder had Pietro bolting up straight, hiding the framed photo of Magda Maximoff under his blankets. He didn't know whether he was allowed to have it, and didn't want it to be confiscated. 

A second later, a helmet-clad Magneto clambered into "Pietro's" attic. The ceiling was so low that Pietro himself had to crouch while standing, so the taller man was practically stooped. 

"I thought I'd find you here," he said, and smiled thinly. "Hello." 

"Hi?" Puzzled, Pietro cocked his head. Magneto hadn't shown much interest in talking to him since they'd arrived, not even to issue orders. It was almost as though he'd taken his son just to prove a point, and now didn't know what to do with him. 

He looked around Pietro's nest in some curiosity, and Pietro tried not to feel self-conscious about all the plush animals and picture books he'd filled the space with. 

Kneeling, Magneto touched the tail of a plush dragon, faded indigo in color, though the scarlet ribbon of its forked tongue was vibrant as ever. "I remember this one. It was Wanda's favorite. What was it called again?" 

"She named her Zuzu." Pietro resisted the urge to pull her away from his father. "I thought maybe I could mail it to her? Since all our things were..." _Wrecked when you destroyed our house._

"She can have it _when_ I bring her here." Magneto gave the dragon a fond pat and turned his focus on his son, looking him over. Aside from his helmet, he was dressed casually. It was still so strange to see him out of uniform; without his impressive cape and full-body armor. He looked almost like a normal parent this way. Older and stiffer than most, but still... "What are you reading?" 

Pietro's cheeks heated as the mutant took the book of fairy tales from his pillow. "It's just because I don't have anything else to do," he explained quickly. "You know how bored I get." 

Magneto didn't seem to hear him. He ran careful fingers over the illustrations, touching the rose hem of Belle's gown. "Ach. Piękna i Bestia." Just hearing him pronounce the title stirred old memories in Pietro. He'd always had the best storytelling voice; deep and carrying... 

"Did you know, most fairy tales and folklore were created to teach valuable life messages to children? Beauty and the Beast is believed to have once been a safe way for women to tell each other that even if their husbands were unattractive or cruel, perhaps they could bring out the prince in him by being especially virtuous." 

Pietro _hadn't_ known that, but thought he preferred the story when it was just about a sassy French lady netting a beefcake prince and one kickass library. 

Magneto paged through the book, stopping again at the Little Mermaid. 

"I don't like that one," Pietro said quickly, and then forced a laugh. "Not that version." 

"I recall. You preferred the film, no? The story made you cry..." 

"The story is just _sad._ " Pietro chewed his lip. "After everything she goes through, she still doesn't get a happy ending? It's not _fair._ " 

"It's realistic. Life is so rarely fair. Precious few of us get the coveted 'happy ending.'" 

This was too surreal. Sitting in a drafty attic with his father, discussing fairy tales just as fingers of rain began to tap the roof and window? Pietro had had fever dreams less bizarre than this. 

"I'm just _saying._ It's a story about a _mermaid._ No need to be all doom and gloom, you know? What's the point of that? 'Sorry, kids! No matter how much you love someone, you're both pretty much screwed!' That's a cheery moral." 

Pietro wrinkled his nose when a raindrop leaked through the ceiling and smacked him on the forehead. Maybe it was a cosmic sign to shut the hell up. Or maybe raindrops were just raindrops. 

Magneto closed the book and set it aside, sitting up properly to look his son in the eye. "You are an actor. You're familiar with Shakespeare's work. I suppose you must be more inclined towards his comedies than his tragedies, too?" 

Well, sure. Pietro would take A Midsummer Night's Dream over Romeo and Juliet any damn day of the week. And so what if it wasn't realistic? Fuck realism! Reality _sucked!_ Sometimes a guy just had to have a happy ending or two before he went completely bonkers. 

Magneto rarely touched his children; even before things had gotten bad. If Pietro stretched his memory far back enough, he could recall being held, though he was never entirely sure whether this was truly _memory_ or just wishful thinking. So when the man reached to cradle Pietro's head between his palms, Pietro held very still, almost afraid to breathe. 

Erik's hands were surprisingly gentle, stroking Pietro's hair back as he mapped out the shape of his son's skull, measuring the span with his fingertips. Nervousness and curiosity warred in the teenager, causing him to feel slightly nauseous. 

"Papa?" he managed, and hated the uncertainty in his voice. Angry as he was, most of him still wanted to be in the man's good graces; still craved his approval, his affection... 

"Yes, myszko?" 

_Myszko._ Mouse. Pietro's childhood nickname, as opposed to Wanda's _tygrysku--_ tiger cub. Pietro was very, very good at being a _myszka._

"What are you doing?" 

He should shut up now; allow the petting to continue and not risk anger by asking stupid questions. His father was in a good mood for once! Why ruin it? 

But Magneto only hummed and attempted to wrap his hands around the widest point of Pietro's head. "I think I have enough material with me. It should only take a thin layer." 

"Material for what? Layer of _what_?" 

Again with the stupid questions... 

"We'll have to shave your hair," Magneto decided, holding Pietro at arm's length and tilting his head, studying the teen like he was a wall he wanted to paint. "I know how vain you are, but you'll understand it is necessary. It will grow back soon enough." 

If anything could have slapped Pietro out of his docile confusion, it was _that_ alarming statement. He squirmed out of Magneto's hold and crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you _talking_ about?!" 

Magneto frowned, put out by his son's raised voice and defensive posture. Pietro felt an instinctive urge to apologize, but quickly shoved it back down again. He deserved answers! 

"Your helmet, of course," Magneto said. "I've reason to believe Xavier will try to contact you. This is merely a preventative measure to keep our location and plans safe." 

He wasn't incorrect about the Xavier assumption. The creepy old bastard had been checking in daily on Pietro, serving as the only tether to his old life. But-- 

"Why would you _shave my hair_ just so I can wear a helmet?" he demanded, scowling pointedly at the helmet Magneto wore now. _He_ certainly hadn't shaved a thing! 

At last Magneto looked irritated; impatient. "I don't have to explain myself to children," he sniffed, looming in the way that screamed, _I am the adult here. You will do as I say._

Wanda was always at her most belligerent whenever their father took that position and looked at them with such derision, but it never failed to cow Pietro. He felt small, inside and out; a tiny mouse trapped under a glass. 

"Yes, you do!" he forced himself to say anyway, although it made his hands tremble; his knees turn to jelly. Oh, he needed to run, run, _run..._ "You can't just do things to me without explaining..." 

He had, before. He could, now. Pietro was only making everything worse for himself. He stared at the floor, unable to keep meeting those eyes, feeling himself shrink more with every moment that passed. 

"Very well. I plan to surgically fuse a layer of metal around your skull. It's the only logical solution. You don't like to wear cumbersome things while running, and I can't trust you to wear it at all times, so..." 

He spoke calmly, as though reciting a boring report at an office meeting. In theory, his words sounded perfectly reasonable. In reality they froze Pietro inside and out; cold hunks of ice forming in his stomach and kidneys and lungs and rendering basic thought impossible. Pietro saw himself lying prone on a sanitized operating table, head shaved, scalp split. He saw the careful way Magneto studied him, forming paper-thin sheets of metal in midair; contouring them, shiny and lovely... 

Forget _earrings._ How could Pietro ever disobey Magneto's slightest whim ever again with such a thing clamped around his very skull? 

_He's gone crazy. He's too old and too sick and he's been through too much. I don't know why or when or how he became this way, but I'm scared!_

He thought of Lance, with the titanium plate fusing his shattered cheekbone together to keep his eye in socket. He thought of Logan, compressed and crushed as easily as a ball of paper. 

_Papa wouldn't do that to me!_

Wouldn't he? 

"I don't want this," Pietro said in such a small voice that he himself could barely hear it. If Magneto caught his words, he didn't acknowledge them. 

"Of course we'll need to gather medical supplies, so we can't begin as soon as I'd like. But I think--" 

Pietro cleared his throat, devoured his meager supply of courage, and tried again. "I don't _want_ this!" 

He dared meet his father's eyes for only a brief moment before again dropping his gaze, tense as stone. 

"Pietro," Magneto began, as though scolding an unruly toddler. "I know this seems frightening. But in the grand scheme of things, it's--" 

He reached to touch his son's shoulder, but Pietro lurched back, swatting his hand away. He realized too late that it was his father's injured arm he'd struck. He felt tight, fever-hot skin beneath his sleeve. Heard Magneto's surprised grunt of pain. Magneto wrenched his arm free, breathing hard, his pupils miniscule black islands in a storming sea of ice. 

"Your wounds are infected. You need to see a doctor." 

"That is not your concern. Now, if you're quite finished being so childish..." 

Pietro looked around frantically, feeling panic shoot arrows through every system of his body. He found no option for escape. In the slanted, chilly attic, there was only one door, and Magneto blocked it. It would take seconds too long to rip each nail from the tarp-covered window. The walls, while old, were too sturdy to break. _Trapped..._

Seeing this obvious desire to flee in Pietro's eyes, Magneto snapped. "Stop this right now. It's a simple procedure, and with your advanced healing capabilities you'll be--" 

When faced with the option of fight or flight, Pietro was naturally inclined towards flight. But past experience had taught him that such a thing was useless against Magneto. The man always found him in the end. 

That left only one option. _Fight._

Pietro held his ground and met his father's eyes, defiant as Wanda and bold as Lance, and loudly stated the words he'd never before dared to utter: "I said _no,_ father!"


End file.
